<A  MAKER 
OF  SAINTS 

HAMILTON  DRUMMOND 


7J 


A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


GREATER  THAN  THE 

GREATEST 

THE  BETRAYERS 


E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 


A   MAKER   OF   SAINTS 


BY 

HAMILTON  DRUMMOND 

AUTHOR  OF  "GREATER  THAN  THE  GREATEST,"  "THI 
BETRAYERS."  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 

681  FIFTH  AVENUE 


COPVKIGHT,   1920, 
BY   E.   P.   DUTTON  &   COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


Printed  In  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PACK 

I.  A  SAINT  IN  THE  MAKING 1 

II.  SINNERS  MADE 14 

III.  THE  AQUILA  NERA 26 

IV.  "RIDE  FAST" 39 

V.  LIPPO 47 

VI.  THE  CUSTOM  OF  BRETTINORO 54 

VII.  FALDORA  OF  PESARO 66 

VIII.  FIERAVANTI  FACES  A  PROBLEM  ....  76 

IX.  HAWK  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND 88 

X.  IN  THE  CASA  GARDEN 97 

XI.  FALDORA  DRINKS  A  HEALTH 109 

XII.  THE  CHILDREN  WITH  THE  MOTHER  .  .  .  121 

XIII.  COLD  MARBLE  AND  WARM  BLOOD  ....  132 

XIV.  A  CHOICE  OF  MODELS 141 

XV.  BIRDS  OF  A  DARK  FEATHER 148 

XVI.  "THEY  ARE  Nor  MY  FOLK" 157 

XVII.  THE  FINDING  OF  AN  INSPIRATION  ....  1G7 

XVIII.  "To  SAVE  MADONNA  LUCIA" 175 

XIX.  REVELATION 184 

XX.  THE  KITES  GATHER 194 

XXI.  LUCIA  LEARNS  THE  HIGHEST  LAW  ....  203 

XXII.  TONIO  PLAYS  MICARB  AND  LOSES  ...  216 

XXIII.  HAWK'S  FIGHTING  CHANCE 228 

XXIV.  —AND  How  HE  USED  IT 238 

XXV.  THE  DAY  BEFORE  THE  NIGHT 248 

XXVI.  TWILIGHT 2.58 

XXVII.  NIGHT 266 

XXVIII.  SUNRISE  275 


2135102 


A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 


NOTE  TO  "PURGATORIO"  CANTO  XIV.  112 
LONGFELLOW'S  TRANSLATION 

"There  was  a  stone  column  in  the  middle  of  the  town,  upon 
which  were  rings  or  knockers,  as  if  all  the  front  doors  were 
there  represented.  To  this,  as  soon  as  a  stranger  made  his 
appearance,  he  was  conducted,  and  thus,  as  chance  decreed,  he 
was  taken  to  the  house  of  the  gentleman  to  whom  the  ring  be- 
longed, and  honoured  according  to  his  rank.  This  column  and 
its  ringb  were  invented  to  remove  all  cause  of  quarrel." 


A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

CHAPTER  I 

A   SAINT   IN   THE   MAKING 

"TURN  slowly,"  said  the  Master.  "Slower — Slower  yet. 
There!  Turn  as  you  turn  now,  'Sandro,  but  cease  when 
I  raise  my  hand." 

Stepping  aside,  so  that  the  clear,  unvarying  undeceiv- 
ing north  light  might  fall  unshadowed  on  the  marble, 
Fieravanti  stood  silent,  his  eyes  intently  watchful,  while 
'Sandro  pressed  the  lever  which  turned  the  wooden  block 
on  whose  four-square  firmness  the  statue  rested.  'Sandro 
was  the  famous  sculptor's  scarpeUino  or  "chisel-man," 
part  pupil,  part  skilled  artisan  and  whole-hearted  wor- 
shipper of  the  genius  whose  fame  filled  Romagna  and  was 
spreading  even  to  Rome  itself. 

In  the  background,  almost  breathless  with  suspense  as 
the  critical  inspection  ran  its  slow  course,  English  An- 
thony, 'Sandro's  fellow-pupil  and  co-worshipper,  waited 
for  the  verdict.  Together  they  had  seen  the  shapeless 
mass  of  wet  clay  take  form  as  by  a  new  creation,  together 
had  hewn  the  marble  block  to  some  faint  grotesque  sug- 
gestion of  its  final  life-likeness,  together  had  watched 
grace  and  beauty  grow  out  of  chaos  under  the  Master's 
hammer  and  chisel;  to  their  enthusiasm  the  Magdalene 
was  perfect. 

But,  as  is  the  way  of  all  artists  who  are  truly  great, 

1 


2  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

Marco,  Fieravanti  was  known  to  be  his  own  sternest  critic. 
Some  flaw  hidden  from  their  inexperience,  some  failure  to 
grip  the  great  conception  and  fix  it  in  the  marble,  some 
subtle  unrealised  imagination  whose  very  existence  was 
hidden  from  their  duller  souls  might  vex  his  high  ideals. 
In  which  case — but  there  was  no  forecasting  what  the 
artist  in  Marco  Fieravanti  might  or  might  not  do  in  such 
a  case.  A  hammer  had  been  known  to  end  in  three 
minutes  as  many  months'  labour;  therefore,  bating  their 
breath,  they  hung  upon  the  verdict,  shivering  inwardly. 

Now,  his  brows  drawn,  his  eyes  narrowed,  his  mouth 
compressed  to  a  scarlet  thread  scarcely  visible  between  the 
fine  hair  of  the  upper  lip  and  the  beginnings  of  the  short, 
curly  beard  which  hid  the  squareness  of  his  firm  chin,  he 
followed  intently  the  slow  revolution  of  the  marble,  mo- 
tioning with  his  hand  from  time  to  time,  and  from  time 
to  time  curtly  bidding  'Sandro,  "turn  on" :  nor  did  his 
serious,  bent  expression  greatly  vary. 

Twice  his  pause  quickened  the  suspense,  so  long-drawn 
was  the  keen  and  searching  examination :  once  when  the 
shifting  of  the  turn-table  brought  the  upturned  face  into 
profile,  and  once  again  as  the  eyes  of  statue  and  sculptor, 
creation  and  creator,  met.  But  there  was  no  glooming  of 
the  shadow  in  the  intent  gaze,  almost,  rather,  a  relaxing 
of  the  compressed  lips  as,  at  a  motion  from  the  hand,  the 
circle  moved  on  to  its  completion. 

The  statue  was  a  commission  from  the  Bishop  of  Forli, 
Fieravanti's  native  town,  and  the  first  received  from  His 
Grandeur.  At  any  moment  the  bishop,  notified  of  its 
readiness,  might  arrive  to  inspect  the  completed  work, 
and  arrange  for  its  placing  in  the  Church  of  the  Holy 
Penitents,  amongst  whom,  naturally,  the  Magdalene  held 
a  foremost  place.  This,  then,  was  in  the  nature  of  a 
final  scrutiny,  a  setting,  as  it  were,  of  the  artist's  spiritual 
sign-manual  on  his  work,  and,  though  he  gave  no  sign, 


A  SAINT  IN  THE  MAKING  3 

Fieravanti  told  himself  that  it  was  good,  quite  as  good 
as  the  Santa  Agnese  in  the  Duomo  of  Rimini  which  had 
brought  him  name  and  fame,  drawing  all  Komagna  and 
half  northern  Italy  to  the  cathedral. 

At  the  completion  of  the  show  circle  he  nodded  his  head 
with  a  great  sigh  of  satisfaction.  As  good  as  the  Santa 
Agnese?  Surely  better:  at  once  his  latest  and  his  best. 
Kvni  in  the  silence  of  his  own  thought  Fieravanti  did 
not  say  "his  greatest."  Modest,  as  all  true  artists  should 
be  but  are  not  always,  he  claimed  no  greatness  for  his 
work:  greatness  belonged  to  the  unattained  beauty  of  the 
Greeks,  living,  strong,  virile. 

"Good  lads,  both,"  he  said,  glancing  from  'Sandro  to 
the  big-built  Englishman  in  the  background.  "From  the 
very  first  you  caught  my  idea,  and  to  be  understood  is 
itself  an  inspiration;  it  puts  heart  into  a  man's  work. 
His  Grandeur  may  come  when  he  pleases,  and,  by  the 
noise  in  the  street  it  pleases  him  to  come  now;  run, 
'Sandro,  and  see." 

Fieravanti  was  right.  Forli,  full-blooded  in  its  loves 
and  its  hates  from  the  day  the  Romans  knew  it  as  Forum 
Livii,  did  nothing  by  halves.  Out  in  the  narrow  street 
it  was  roaring  itself  hoarse  in  honour  of  the  bishop  it 
loved,  shouting  its  "vivas"  with  a  whole-hearted  vigour 
which  would  only  have  been  equalled  by  its  tearing  up  of 
the  cobbles  to  pelt  the  litter  of  the  bishop  it  hated. 

But  Fieravanti  heard  nothing  of  the  din,  heard  nothing 
of  the  swelling  tumult  as  the  litter  was  halted  at  the 
door  of  Forli's  yet  greater  idol — himself,  nothing  of  the 
feet  in  the  passage-way  and  workshop.  He  had  caught 
the  lever,  'Tonio  standing  aside,  and  was  sending  the 
marble  once  more  upon  its  slow  revolution,  his  every  sense 
absorbed  in  a  recurrent  study  of  his  handiwork. 

It  is  the  faculty  of  sympathy  and  comprehension  in  a 
man  which  wins  him  the  love  of  his  fellows.  The  man  of 


strong  soul  men  will  follow,  the  man  of  high  birth  they 
may  obey  through  custom,  but  the  man  of  sympathetic 
comprehension  of  his  fellows  men  love.  Sometimes  we 
say  of  such  a  one,  "He  is  very  human,"  when,  more  truly, 
we  mean  that  in  him  he  has  a  touch  of  the  divine:  the 
human,  unhappily,  is  not  always  sympathetic.  It  was 
this  quality  in  Luca  Melone  which  had  compelled  the  love 
of  Forli;  now  its  characteristic  flashed  out.  'Sandro,  who 
led  the  way  would  have  called  to  the  Master,  breaking  in 
on  his  absorption,  but  His  Grandeur  silenced  him  with  a 
hand  on  the  arm  and  all  three  stood  at  gaze. 

Fieravanti,  though  in  the  world,  was,  for  the  time,  not 
of  it.  The  four  walls  of  his  workshop  had  crumbled;  he 
and  his  marble  were  alone,  a  universe  of  themselves,  and 
to  him,  except  for  the  marble,  the  world  was  not.  One 
hand  held  the  lever,  the  other  hung  loosely  by  his  side: 
an  artist's  hand,  the  fingers  long,  slender,  delicate,  flexible, 
sensitive  to  obey  the  subtlest  inspiration  of  the  creative 
mind,  yet  firm  and  muscular,  strong  as  sinews  strong  as 
steel  cords  could  make  them. 

Born  in  Forli  yet  not  altogether  of  Forli,  a  mixture  of 
races  met  in  him.  The  temperament  was  southern,  while 
the  broad-templed,  deep-browed  head  told  of  a  northern 
strain.  For  the  skin  was  fair  under  its  tan,  the  short 
beard  a  russet  brown,  the  ithick  hair,  falling  to  the 
shoulders  after  the  custom  of  the  times,  a  yet  deeper 
tint,  warm  with  the  warmth  of  a  ripe  chestnut  new  fallen 
from  its  burr.  For  the  rest,  not  even  the  loose  gaberdine- 
like  smock  of  white  linen,  girded  at  the  waist,  could  al- 
together spoil  the  fine  proportions  of  his  tall  figure — a 
man  whom  women  followed  with  their  eyes  for  the  beauty 
of  his  face,  but  envied  by  men  for  his  upright  carriage, 
supple  strength  and  breadth  of  shoulder;  this  last  the  gift 
of  his  peasant  forbears :  Marco  Fieravanti  though  born  in 


A  SAINT  IN  THE  MAKING  5 

Forli  was  of  the  soil  and  peasant  bred — which,  it  may  be, 
was  one  reason  why  Forli  loved  him:  he  was  their  very 
blood. 

It  was  the  little  hacking  cough  which  troubled  Luca 
Melone  at  times  that  roused  the  sculptor.  But  even  then 
he  had  no  apologies  ready.  Ignorant  of  will  to  offend 
where  was  there  cause  for  offence?  Instead,  and  without 
even  formal  greeting,  he  went  straight  to  the  purpose  of 
the  bishop's  presence  in  the  workshop. 

"Stand  here,  Your  Grandeur,  where  there  is  no 
shadow." 

"Ah!"  said  Melone,  his  kind  old  eyes  smiling  whimsi- 
cally, "that  is  a  rare  thing  in  life — the  light  without  a 
shadow.  Happy  is  the  man  who  finds  it!  When  last  I 
saw  your  statue,  Ser  Fieravanti,  it  was  beauty  struggling 
into  life,  now " 

"Wait,"  said  Fieravanti,  his  hand  upon  the  lever,  "wait 
until  you  have  seen  all." 

The  bishop  nodded,  still  smiling,  but  as  the  Magdalene 
made  her  slow  revolution  the  hint  of  humour  playing  round 
the  gentle,  sensitive  mouth,  faded  into  gravity.  An  honest 
man,  he  knew  his  own  limitations  and  how  to  criticise  a 
saint  of  Marco  Fieravanti's  carving  perplexed  him.  Of 
art  he  only  knew  that  at  times  his  soul  kindled  within  him, 
responsive,  at  times  was  revolted  and  at  times  left  cold 
by  what  stirred  others  to  admiration.  Beauty,  he  readily 
admitted,  might  be  present  in  all  these;  but  analysis  was 
beyond  him,  nor  could  he  have  said  why  his  soul  was 
stirred  or  why  left  untouched.  He  knew  when  he  liked 
a  statue  or  a  picture  but  not  why,  and  since  this  Magda- 
lene of  Fieravanti's  left  him  cold  how  was  he  to  do  it 
justice  without  lying  to  himself?  Praise  whole-heartedly 
he  could  not.  And  yet,  in  a  work  of  Fieravanti's  carving 
the  fault  must  lie  in  himself,  in  his  own  inability  to 


6  A  MAKEE  OF  SAINTS 

understand,  not  in  the  failure  of  the  finished   marble. 

But  that  suggested  a  straw  of  doubt  and  in  his  per- 
plexity he  caught  at  it. 

"Um-m-m,"  he  murmured,  nodding  his  head.  "Beauti- 
ful — most  beautiful.  The  Magdalene's  very  pose  without 
a  doubt.  But  is  it  finished?" 

"You  do  not  like  it?"  It  was  an  essential  of  Fiera- 
vanti's  art  that  he  should  read  faces,  seeing  not  just 
features,  not  just  lines  of  age  or  curves  of  beauty,  but 
the  subtle  hidden  spirit  which  flames  in  all  men  behind 
the  veil  of  flesh !  How  else  could  his  marbles  live  ?  Now 
this  sixth  sense,  acutely  perceptive,  read  embarrassment 
in  His  Grandeur's  clouded  eyes. 

"Like  it?"  Melone  spoke  abstractedly,  his  eyes  nar- 
rowed, his  brows  drawn,  his  lower  lip  pushed  out  in 
perplexed  thought.  "The  Magdalene?  Yes,  certainly 
the  Magdalene,  the  woman  who  has  sinned  and  sorrowed 
to  the  edge  of  heart-break,  but — but — oh,  beautiful  with- 
out doubt.  The  pose  is  perfect:  a  breaking  away  from 
convention,  perhaps,  but  life  itself.  When  shall  I  bid 
them  make  ready  for  it  in  the  church?" 

But  Fieravanti  gave  no  answer.  There  were  some  who 
complained  that  at  times  he  forgot  his  place,  forgot  that 
he  was  a  man  of  the  people,  a  mere  hewer  of  stone  to  the 
greater  glory  of  God  with  the  Church  as  chief  patron; 
others  said  he  knew  there  were  many  bishops  but  only 
one  Marco  Fieravanti.  Both  were  wrong.  Like  all  true 
artists  he  was  an  humble  man  before  his  art,  since  inter- 
pretation must  always  lead  upward  to  the  infinite,  but 
when  some  points  in  that  interpretation  perplexed  him, 
pome  vital  expression  within  his  powers  and  yet  evading 
his  grasp,  as,  clearly,  it  had  evaded  him  thus  far,  he 
forgot  everything  but  the  difficulty,  and  would  have  let 
Pope  Clement  himself  stand  by  unanswered  while  he 
groped  for  the  solution. 


And  his  perplexity  was  this — What  was  it  in  his  Mag- 
dalene which  failed  to  please?  The  model  had  been  ap- 
proved; through  the  slow  growth  of  the  statue  from  the 
rough  block  of  Carrara  marble  to  this,  his  latest  master- 
piece of  beauty,  he  had  found  his  patron  a  kindly,  simple- 
hearfcd  gentleman;  unpretentious,  uncritical,  always 
delighting  in  each  new  revelation  of  the  gradual  develop- 
ment. Critical?  Even  now  he  was  not  critical,  but, 
quite  clearly,  neither  was  he  content  in  his  heart.  Why? 
That  touched  the  sculptor's  pride  in  more  than  his  art. 
It  was  his  foible  to  please  his  patrons  even  when  they 
did  not  know  why  they  were  pleased.  Surely  it  is  the 
supreme  greatness  of  a  Master  that  he  can  awaken  per- 
ceptions which  have  hitherto  lain  dormant?  With  Luca 
Melone  there  was  no  such  awakening:  plainly,  the  marble 
left  him  cold.  Why? 

Still  silent,  Fieravanti  pushed  the  lever  once  more  as 
'Sandro  had  pushed  it,  turning  the  block  slowly,  so  that 
again  each  curve  and  outline  came  under  the  searching 
power  of  the  strong  light.  And  he  found  it  all  good. 
Good  as  the  Santa  Agnese  of  Rimini?  Better,  because 
more  human.  That  was  natural.  The  beauty  of  the 
Magdalene  was  the  beauty  of  this  world;  in  the  Agnese 
he  had  striven  to  catch  some  foretaste  of  the  beauty  of 
the  world  to  come,  a  thing  to  baffle  imagination  since  no 
man  knows  wherein  lies  that  beauty.  Where,  then,  was 
the  failure?  The  pose?  Certainly  in  his  conception  he 
had,  as  Melone  had  noted,  broken  away  from  convention, 
but  twice  over  His  Grandeur  had  praised  the  pose :  where, 
then,  was  the  failure? 

The  figure  was  half  seated,  half,  as  it  were,  flung  on 
the  ground,  represented  by  a  broad  oval  of  roughened 
marble,  flung  in  a  crouched  abandon  of  self-abasement, 
as  if  the  conviction  of  sin  had  come  with  a  Pauline  swift- 
ness. The  thinnest  veil  of  drapery  the  Church  would 


8  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

permit  suggested  rather  than  covered  the  gracious  charm 
of  her  splendid  womanhood:  the  feet,  protruding  beyond, 
were  nude  marvels  of  delicate  modelling;  advanced  a 
little,  just  below  the  level  of  the  breast,  the  hands  were 
clasped,  the  right  above  the  left.  Being  a  figure  partly 
recumbent  the  head  was  tilted  back,  the  lovely  face  raised 
to  heaven,  the  delicate,  sensitive  lips  half  parted  in  the 
imploration  of  a  sudden  and  crushing  penitence.  No, 
Fieravanti,  his  own  most  stern  and  grudging  critic,  could 
see  no  fault. 

Yet,  clearly,  His  Grandeur,  looking  down  into  the  flaw- 
less face,  his  brows  puckered,  his  lower  lip  pushed  out, 
was  not  entirely  content.  Then  the  sculptor  remembered 
the  question  he  had  fenced,  and  answered  it,  but  so  as 
to  gain  time  and  not  as  he  would  have  replied  an  hour 
before. 

"Finished,  did  Your  Grandeur  ask?  No,  not  quite — a 
touch  here,  a  touch  there." 

"Ah,  so  I  thought!"  The  pucker  disappeared.  In  a 
mingling  of  relief  and  frank  kindliness  he  laid  a  familiar 
hand  on  the  sculptor's  shoulder,  pressing  it.  A  condescen- 
sion from  the  purple  of  the  prelate  to  the  smock  of  the 
maker  of  saints?  Yes,  but,  to  his  credit,  the  bishop  never 
forgot  that  he  had  risen  from  the  people.  "So  I  thought," 
he  repeated.  "It  is  always  the  soul  that  is  born  last,  and 
in  Mary  it  was  a  soul  that  loved  greatly.  It  is  a  great 
gift  yours,  my  son;  to  put  a  soul  into  stone  and  thereby 
lift  men's  thoughts  to  heaven.  Would  that  we  poor  priests 
could  always  do  the  like,  rousing  the  soul  in  the  flesh! 
And  when  will  the  miracle  be  finished?" 

"I  must  have  time,  Your  Grandeur.  To-morrow  I 
go  to  Arzano " 

"Take  time"  said  the  bishop  heartily,  adding,  in  the 
homely  sense  of  his  peasant  birth,  "Better  a  month's  de- 
lay than  a  botched  job.  To  Arzano?  A  commission  for 


A  SAINT  IN  THE  MAKING  9 

the  Duke,  no  doubt."  Suddenly  his  eyes  twinkled  as  at 
some  humourous  thought.  "Arzano?  That  is  a  three- 
days  journey  with  a  choice  of  roads.  Ser  Fieravanti,  I 
recommend  you  to  go  by  way  of  Brettinoro  and  pass  the 
night  there." 

"There  is  a  good  inn?" 

His  Grandeur  shook  his  head,  still  smiling.  He  was  a 
tall,  lean,  loose-jointed  man  with  angular  projecting  cheek- 
bones, but  his  smile  was  most  winningly  soft  and  kindly. 

"There  is  much  better  than  that,  there  is  a  welcome  no 
payment  can  force  nor  money  purchase.  Have  you  never 
heard  of  The  Custom?  Set  up  in  the  centre  of  Bretti- 
noro's  one  street — it  is  a  straggle  of  a  village,  nothing 
more — you  will  find  a  broad-faced  stone  pillar  with  a 
score  or  two  of  metal  rings  so  let  into  it  that  they  hang 
loosely,  knocker  fashion.  Each  ring  is  an  open  door  for 
the  traveller:  make  your  selection,  then  knock  boldly  and 
your  welcome  is  sure." 

"I  am  stupid :  how  can  a  stone  pillar  be  an  open  door  ?" 

"It  is  I  who  tell  my  story  badly.  And  it  is  a  pretty 
story,  I  know  no  other  like  it  in  Italy — nor  in  all  the 
world !  An  inn  ?  There  never  has  been  an  inn  in  Bretti- 
noro; but  of  old  the  good  people  living  there  so  laid  to 
heart  the  text,  HospitaJes  invicem  sine  murmuratione. 
Show  hospitality  without  grudging,  that  nightly  they 
came  to  blows  in  their  eagerness  to  obey  the  Apostolic 
injunction  and  secure  the  privilege  of  entertaining  the 
wayfarer." 

"Mostly,"  said  Fieravanti,  "it  is  the  host  who  bleeds 
the  guest,  but  in  Brettinoro  it  seems  it  was  the  host  who 
bled  for  the  guest's  sake!" 

"And  at  times  the  guest  also!  Drawn  into  the  vortex 
of  the  struggle  to  secure  him  the  traveller,  not  once  nor 
twice,  but  many  times,  had  in  the  end  more  need  of  a 
surgeon  than  a  cook!  To  put  an  end  to  such  a  scandal 


10  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

The  Custom  was  established.  The  stone  pillar  was  set 
up  in  the  village  street  and  whoever  so  willed  fixed  a  ring 
to  its  front.  Picking  a  ring  at  hazard  the  traveller  made 
his  choice,  knocked  on  the  stone  and  knocking  opened  a 
door  of  welcome — quarrels  were  at  an  end." 

"But,"  objected  Fieravanti,  "there  are  such  things  as 
armorial  devices " 

"None  are  allowed,  the  rings  are  all  of  a  pattern." 

"And  every  night  twenty  or  thirty  or  forty  lackeys 
or  men-at-arms  stand  round  to  see  which  ring " 

His  Grandeur  again  interrupted.  "No,  no,  no  such 
waste.  Nor  do  all  the  would-be  hosts  possess  lackeys  or 
men-at-arms.  The  poor  as  well  as  the  rich  are  repre- 
sented on  that  stone  pillar.  No:  the  urchins  of  Bretti- 
noro  know  the  rings  as  you  your  graving  tools  and  act 
as  guides.  Nor  dare  they  hint  a  choice.  The  roof-tree 
of  the  rash  blabber  would  go  up  in  a  fire  that  night.  The 
traveller  makes  choice  by  chance.  It  may  be  butterless 
rye  bread  with  a  straw  pallet  to  follow,  or  the  supper  of 
a  prince  and  lawn  sheets." 

"Eye  bread  or  a  prince's  supper?  Why  it's  a  lottery! 
Can  Your  Grandeur,  with  any  conscience,  commend  such 
a  cast  of  the  dice?" 

But  the  humour  in  His  Grandeur's  kindly  eyes  only 
broadened  at  the  mock  reproof. 

"Worse  than  that,  only  let  it  not  be  breathed  beyond 
your  workshop!  With  a  good  conscience  I  shall  load  the 
dice  for  you,  Ser  Fieravanti!  Knock  with  the  fourth 
ring  from  the  left  in  the  third  row  from  the  top ;  Ascanio 
Faldora's  door  will  open  for  you  and  your  supper  of  a 
prince  be  sure;  I  have  travelled  that  way  and  I  know." 

"Faldora  of  Pesaro?"  It  was  part  of  Marco  Fiera- 
vanti's  trade  to  know  not  only  the  great  names  of  Ro- 
magna  but  also  something  of  their  history. 

"Faldora  of  Pesaro/'  repeated  the  bishop.     "That  you 


A  SAINT  IN  THE  MAKING  11 

will  sup  like  a  prince  will  be  the  least  of  your  enter- 
tainment. God  send  Romagna  many  Ascanio  Faldoras — 
a  Grand  Seigneur  and  a  most  perfect  gentleman.  Ro- 
magna ?  All  Italy  has  need  of  his  breed.  Age  has  neither 
bent  his  back  nor  cooled  his  fire.  That  he  has  all  the 
pride  of  all  the  Faldoreschi  from  the  days  of  Adam — it 
is  his  belief  that  our  first  father  was  a  Faldora — is  the 
one  weakness  of  a  splendid  nature — and,  yes,  perhaps 
there  is  a  flaw  of  temper  when  his  mood  is  crossed,  a 
hastiness,  a  heat  which  flashes  out  to  scorch  what  lies 
nearest;  perhaps,  too,  a  sourness  which  surges  up  for  a 
shamed  instant.  But  even  I,  who  come  from  below — as 
a  boy  I  starved  at  times  and  at  times  I  lived  on  a  begged 
crust,  Ser  Fieravanti,  and  am  none  the  worse  since  it 
taught  me  the  needs  and  sorrows  of  the  poor — even  I,  who 
can  have  none  to  follow  me,  understand  why  he  is  soured." 

"Soured?*'  repeated  Fieravanti,  who  had  grown  inter- 
ested as  he  listened,  "full  of  years,  honoured  in  his  age, 
rich,  secure,  a  Faldora  of  Pesaro " 

"And  the  last  of  his  line — a  line  which  has  fallen  from 
its  ancient  greatness  but  is  still  great." 

"But  there  are  collaterals  of  his  name;  I  have  heard 
men  speak  of  a  younger  generation." 

"And  if  your  Magdalene  were  broken  to  pieces  before 
your  eyes,"  the  bishop  touched  the  marble  as  he  spoke, 
"would  it  comfort  you  that  another  hand  might  carve 
something  smaller  from  the  fragments  and  say,  'This  was 
once  Fieravanti V?" 

"Then  Faldora  is  childless?" 

"No,  there  is  a  grand-daughter."  Turning  from  the 
statue  Luca  Melone  laid  a  hand  lightly  on  the  sculptor's 
shoulder.  "There  is  a  subject  for  your  chisel,  Ser  Fiera- 
vanti. Make  a  saint  of  Lucia  Faldora." 

"Saints  are  of  God's  making,  not  mine,  Your  Grandeur." 

"Yet  men  call  you  The  Maker  of  Saints." 


12  A  MAKEE  OF  SAINTS 

"In  stone,  yes." 

"Well,  make  a  saint  in  stone  of  Lucia  Faldora." 

"Is  she  so  beautiful?" 

"Must  one  be  beautiful  to  be  a  saint?  But  you  are 
right,  she  is  as  beautiful  as  your  Magdalene,  and  not 
unlike,  no,  now  I  think  of  it,  not  unlike." 

"And  wherein  is  the  likeness?" 

"Um — no!"  Melone  shook  his  head.  "I  shall  say  no 
more  than — it  is  there!" 

"Your  Grandeur  tempts  me " 

"Not  I,  but  the  artist  in  you.  Go  to  Arzano  by  way 
of  Brettinoro  and  judge  for  yourself.  Then,  when  you 
have  put  a  soul  into  my  Magdalene  send  for  me  again. 
Of  all  women  ip.  the  world  Mary  of  Magdala  has  most 
need  of  a  beautiful  and  sweet  soul,  since  it  was  the  body 
which  dragged  her  down.  Remember,  the  fourth  ring 
from  the  left  in  the  third  row  from  the  top!" 

"And  is  she  saint-like,  this  Lucia  Faldora?" 

Again  Melone  laid  a  finger  on  the  statue.  "What  was 
your  marble  before  your  chisel  wrought  its  magic?  Pure 
and  cold,  ignorant  of  the  great  purpose  for  which  God 
made  it:  there's  your  answer!  Test  The  Custom,  my 
friend,  test  The  Custom,"  and  with  a  smiling  nod  His 
Grandeur  turned  to  the  door. 

But  when  Fieravanti  returned  from  aiding  the  bishop 
into  his  litter  he  stood  long  silent  before  the  work  of  his 
hands,  alternately  pressing  and  drawing  the  lever  with 
slow  force  so  that  the  face  of  the  Magdalene  shifted  from 
side  to  side  in  the  clear  light.  And  in  the  background 
'Sandro  and  Anthony  Hawk  waited  in  anxious  expecta- 
tion. Apart  from  respect  their  dumbness  was  the  dumb- 
ness of  dogs  whose  affectionate  sympathy  is  stirred  but 
which  cannot  understand.  For  His  Grandeur  as  Bishop 
of  Forli  they  had  great  reverence,  for  His  Grandeur  as 
Art  critic  no  reverence  at  all;  and,  indeed,  he  had  at- 


A  SAINT  IN  THE  MAKING  13 

tempted  no  criticism.  It  was  just  that  he  did  not  ap- 
prove. Why? 

That  was  what  troubled  Fieravanti.  Luca  Melone  was 
of  the  people,  Luca  Melone  stood  for  the  people,  for  the 
tens  of  thousands  who  through  following  generations 
would  stand  before  his  Magdalene  and  be  stirred  to  the 
soul,  or  left  cold  as  they  judged  his  handiwork.  In  the 
end  it  is  the  judgment  of  the  people  that  counts :  why  had 
Luca  Melone  not  approved  ?  Soul  ?  Twice  he  had  spoken 
of  soul:  surely,  in  sculpture  beauty  was  soul  and  none 
could  deny  the  beauty.  Most  cordially  Melone  had  ad- 
mitted the  beauty;  yet  he  had  not  approved. 

With  a  gesture  of  vexed  impatience  the  maker  of  saints 
beckoned  to  the  silent  scarpettini.  "Cover  her  from  the 
dust  with  a  sheet,"  he  said  curtly.  "A  soul?  Where  am 
I  to  find  a  soul  to  please  His  Grandeur?  'Tonio,  see  that 
the  horses  are  ready  by  seven  to-morrow  morning.  We 
sleep  at  Castel-Cavo ;  for  our  next  night's  rest  we  will  test 
this  Custom  of  Brettinoro.  While  we  are  gone  do  you, 
'Sandro,  shape  out  the  lions  for  the  pulpit  in  Sant'  Agos- 
tino.  Soul?  The  less  a  man  plays  with  souls  the  better, 
and  least  of  all  with  the  soul  of  a  woman!" 

"And  to-night?"  hinted  the  Englishman. 

Fieravanti  laughed.  "I  may  find  Magdalenes  enough 
at  the  Castello  but  no  soul  for  my  saint." 

"It  was  the  body  I  meant,  and  the  flesh  at  that,"  said 
blunt  Anthony  bluntly.  "The  streets  are  not  safe 
o'nights." 

But  the  maker  of  saints  only  shook  his  head:  "Keep 
your  cudgel  for  the  roads  to-morrow.  God  be  praised  for 
friends!  In  all  Forli,  yes  and  in  all  Romagna,  there  is 
no  man  wishes  me  ill." 


CHAPTER  II 

SINNERS    MADE 

THERE  are  two  primitive  ways  by  which  a  strong  man 
may  rule  turbulent  folk — he  may  either  win  their  affec- 
tion, win  their  willing  service;  or  he  may  set  his  heel 
upon  their  liberties  and  grind  resistance  into  the  dust. 
Indeed,  when  all's  said,  whether  the  method  be  primitive 
or  subtle  all  systems  are,  in  the  end,  variants  of  these  two. 

With  Girolamo  Ordelaffi  it  was  a  blending  of  the  two 
devices,  love  and  fear.  To  him  the  latter  came  more 
naturally,  and  in  his  heart  he  placed  his  fullest  reliance 
on  the  thick-walled,  be-towered,  be-machiolated  Castello 
whose  frowning  menace  warned  Forli  to  obedience.  In  the 
worst  event  it  would  stand  a  siege  long  enough  to  allow  aid 
to  come  from  Imola,  Faenza  or  Eimini;  not  that  the 
Alidosi,  the  Manfredi,  or  the  Malatestas  loved  Girolamo; 
but  sooner  or  later  each  might  have  need  of  a  like  as- 
sistance, and  in  any  case  dog  does  not  eat  dog,  nor  hawk 
pick  out  a  hawk's  een. 

But  that  he  might  not  be  pushed  to  that  extremity 
Ordelaffi  prudently  cultivated  that  exotic  plant,  concilia- 
tion, and  to  that  end  paid  court  to  the  maker  of  saints, 
beloved  of  Forli.  Art  did  not  stir  his  blood  by  one  heart- 
beat; the  languorous  allure  of  a  Capuan  Venus  he  could 
understand  and  appreciate,  but  these  aloof  saints  of  Fiera- 
vanti  left  him  frigid.  But  if  the  common  folk  went  on 
their  knees  to  the  cold  marble,  and  because  of  the  marble 
shouted  themselves  hoarse  for  the  son  of  Forli  who  shaped 
the  dull  whiteness,  why  then  he  would  use  him  to  his  own 

14 


SINNERS  MADE  15 

gain  and  catch  two  fish  on  the  one  hook,  a  reputation  as 
an  art  patron  and  the  goodwill  of  the  people;  wherefore 
Marco  Fieravanti  was  bidden  to  the  Castello's  at  times 
doubtful  revelries  and,  outwardly  at  least,  made  welcome. 

And  Fieravanti?  What  magnet  drew  his  clean  steel 
to  such  a  mingling  of  tinsel  and  dross  as  Girolamo  Orde- 
laffi  loved?  Certainly  it  was  not  to  curry  favour  with 
the  great,  nor  feed  his  vanity  by  rubbing  shoulders  with 
despisers  of  his  humbler  origin.  To  wealth,  race  and 
greatness  he  gave  no  more  thought  than  he  had  given  to 
the  coming  of  Luca  Melone.  But  charm  and  grace,  beauty 
of  curve  and  outline,  whether  of  saint  or  sinner,  were 
the  open  books  from  whose  pages  he  drew  his  inspiration, 
and  these  he  studied  as  keenly  in  the  warm  and  scented 
air  of  the  Castello  as  in  the  wind-blown,  open  spaces  of  the 
market-place. 

And  there  is  also  this,  less  obvious,  more  subtle,  but 
not  less  true — the  open  book  of  the  Castello  taught  him 
by  opposites.  For  his  art,  curves  and  lines  of  beauty 
were  not  enough:  needs  must  that  he  see  nature  stripped 
as  bare  as  naked  flesh.  From  the  play  of  hot  passions 
suddenly  flashed  out  from  luring  eyes,  from  the  coarse 
triumph  of  the  successful  gamester,  from  the  uncurbed 
anger,  despair  at  times,  of  the  beggared  loser,  from  a 
score  of  revelations  in  human  nature  sinking  to  its  depths, 
he  learned  how  heights  are  climbed  and  how  beauty  may 
be  as  pure  as  it  is  lovely.  Nor  did  these  revelations  offend 
him.  Marco  Fieravanti  was  no  ascetic,  no  austere  an- 
chorite. Not  his  to  censure  a  yielding  to  temptations 
which  for  him  had  no  lure.  He  took  men  and  women  as 
he  found  them,  used  what  he  found  good  for  his  art  and 
let  the  rest  slip  past. 

That  night  was  as  many  others.  Always  Anthony 
Hawk,  sturdier  and  stronger  muscled  than  the  slighter 
built  smaller  boned  Italian,  'Sandro,  had  hinted  at  at- 


16 

tendance  as  body-guard  through  the  darkness  of  the  nar- 
row streets;  and  always,  as  upon  this  night,  Fieravanti 
had  answered  that  there  was  none  in  Forli  who  wished  him 
ill.  Thieves?  It  was  a  strange  commentary  on  the  hot- 
blooded  turbulent  folk  over  whom  Girolamo  Ordelaffi 
ruled  with  a  watchful  fear  which  never  wholly  lifted,  but 
in  the  most  lawless,  poverty-ridden  rookery  of  a  poor  and 
lawless  city  Marco  Fieravanti  had  but  to  cry  his  name  to 
pass  unscathed  in  pouch  or  person. 

So  now,  though  the  March  night  had  settled  darkly  on 
Forli  when  he  set  out  for  the  Castello,  he  gave,  and  rightly, 
no  thought  to  a  risk  which  not  five  men  in  the  city  dared 
have  ventured  with  impunity.  Dark?  It  was  black  dark: 
that  grey  hour  which  the  peasant  folk  call  the  hour  be- 
tween dog  and  wolf  had  long  passed  and  in  Forli's  twist- 
ing, narrow  streets,  the  pent-roofed  houses  with  their 
eaves  almost  touching  across  the  pooled  and  rutted  cobble 
ways,  the  gloom  thickened  to  that  primal  darkness  which 
might  be  felt. 

And  yet,  through  the  winter  nights  that  had  always  been 
a  walk  which  Fieravanti  loved.  It  was  at  such  times 
that,  brooding  on  those  curves  and  lines,  passions  and 
despairs,  inspiration  broke  upon  him.  In  Forli  men 
closed  their  doors  with  the  fall  of  dusk,  windows  were 
few  and  fast  shuttered  for  good  cause;  light  there  was 
none,  nor,  except  rarely,  so  much  as  a  footfall  to  bring 
near  the  common  things  of  life.  Solitary,  unafraid,  know- 
ing every  inch  of  the  way,  he  could  unleash  his  imagina- 
tion and  set  it  coursing  through  those  recesses  of  the 
mind  where  unborn  conceptions  waited  an  awakening. 

It  had  been  in  the  solitary  quiet  of  the  darkness,  with 
the  early  winter's  wind  cold  on  his  face,  that  the  pose 
suggestive  of  the  true  spirit  of  the  Magdalene,  an  abase- 
ment of  penitence  which  still  looks  up  in  faith,  had 


SINNERS  MADE  17 

flashed  upon  him;  now,  through  a  natural  connection, 
his  thoughts  turned  once  again  upon  Luca  Melone's  dis- 
satisfaction. Dissatisfaction?  No,  that  was  too  strong 
a  word;  perhaps  a  want  of  appreciation,  a  lack  of  com- 
prehension, better  described  His  Grandeur's  attitude. 

Why?  As  a  blind  man's  perceptive  fingertips  search 
out  meanings  blank  to  his  darkened  sight,  so  Marco  Fiera- 
vanti's  sensitive  memory  searched  curve  and  outline  for 
an  answer,  searched  and  searched,  forgetting  rough  cobbles 
and  blackness  of  darkness  in  his  absorption.  But  search 
and  grope  as  he  might  he  found  none.  Always,  as  if 
travelling  in  a  circle,  he  came  back  to  Melone's  phrase,  the 
soul  is  born  last. 

What  did  he  mean?  In  the  very  self-abandonment  of 
the  figure  there  was  both  prayer  and  penitence :  what  more 
was  looked  for  in  a  Mary  Magdalene?  And  yet — and 
yet — there  must  be  a  something  lacking,  a  something  the 
bishop  looked  to  find  and  missed.  Perhaps,  thought  Fiera- 
vanti  with  unaccustomed  cynicism,  he  would  find  it  by 
opposites  in  the  Castello  that  night;  and  with  that  he  was 
at  the  gates. 

Though  Frederick,  the  great  Emperor,  was  dead  these 
sixty-five  years  the  fashion  of  luxury  he  had  set  lived 
after  him.  But  what,  in  Frederick's  great  Court,  the 
greatest  and  most  splendid  of  the  time,  had  been  an  eager 
love  of  the  beautiful  for  beauty's  sake,  in  Ordelaffi'e 
petty  circle  degenerated  into  a  ministering  to  the  sensual 
and  a  gross  love  of  voluptuous  display.  Shining  silks  hid 
the  rude  roughness  of  the  thick  walls  in  tawdry  imitation 
of  Flemish  and  Bayeux  tapestries;  the  scores  of  lamps 
were  no  longer  patterned  after  the  graceful  beauty  of 
ancient  Greek  models  but  flared  their  light  garishly 
through  many  coloured  glass;  aromatic  gums  and  per- 
fumed woods  smouldered  incense  as  of  old,  scenting  the 


18  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

warm  air,  but  the  severe  loveliness  of  pure,  cool  marble 
no  longer  rested  eyes  wearied  by  the  riot  of  colour. 

And  as  the  setting  of  the  stage  so  were  the  players. 
Frederick,  himself  a  sensualist,  had  kept  the  clean  fame  of 
his  great  Court  above  reproach;  with  Girolamo  Ordelaffi 
licence  peeped  leering  through  half  opened  doors,  and  the 
rattle  of  the  dice-box  was  the  music  he  loved  best.  Forli 
paid  for  all,  and  in  the  guardrooms  of  the  Castello,  in 
steel  by  night  and  day  and  with  blades  loose  in  sheath, 
there  never  failed  those  who  saw  to  it  that,  good  grace  or 
bad  grace,  in  the  end  Forli  paid. 

The  night's  gaiety  was  in  full  flood,  a  babbling  stream 
not  deep  but  noisy,  when  Fieravanti  passed  from  the  grim 
strength  of  the  guarded  passage  ways  to  the  glare  and 
tinsel  of  Forli's  petty  Court.  He  was  a  late  comer  and 
the  room,  of  no  great  size,  was  already  crowded,  the  air 
vibrant  with  the  blent  music  of  many  sounds — the  chime 
of  women's  laughter,  men's  rougher  voices  decorously  sub- 
dued, the  clang  of  a  steel  sword  sheath  on  the  paved 
floor,  the  soft  rasp  of  moving  feet,  the  whispering  rustle 
of  trailing  gowns,  the  twinkle  of  crystal  as  .pages  in 
Ordelaffi's  gay  liveries  of  blue  and  crimson  moved  here 
and  there  with  brass  trays  of  flasks  and  wine  cups. 

It  has  been  said  that  the  sculptor  was  a  man  whom 
women  turned  to  look  at  twice,  and  now  it  was  a  woman 
who  first  saw  him  as  he  stood,  solitary,  watching  the  inter- 
weaving play  of  many  colours.  Instantly  she  linked  an 
over-familiar  but  well-accustomed  hand  with  Ordelaffi's 
arm. 

"There,  standing  alone  by  the  door,  who  is  that?" 

"That?"  Ordelaffi  shook  his  head  as,  laughing,  he 
looked  down  upon  her.  "That  is  our  Phidias,  our  peasant 
Praxiteles," 

"A  sculptor?  And  if  I  posed  for  him  would  you  be 
very  jealous,  my  Girolamo?" 


SINNERS  MADE  19 

But  Ordelaffi  only  laughed  again,  laughed  tolerantly 
yet  with  a  touch  of  malice  in  the  laugh. 

"You  pose  for  him!  You  forget,  Bellissima;  the  man 
is  a  maker  of  saints,  while  you — but  now  I  think  of  it, 
his  latest  miracle  would  fit  you  as  this  glove  your  hand ! 
And  yet,  no!  The  Magdalene  was  penitent,  whereas  you 
— you  catch  my  meaning?" 

"Penitent?  Perhaps  someday  I  shall  be — if  I  live  long 
enough.  For  to-night  life's  life;  would  you  be  jealous?" 

"Leave  him  alone,"  answered  Ordelaffi  shortly,  and  this 
time  it  was  Amata  Capponi  who  laughed.  "Through  a 
woman  mischief  came  into  the  world  and  still  it  is  women 
who  make  it.  r 

"Tell  me,"  she  persisted,  her  hold  on  his  arm  tighten- 
ing :  "If  I  were  to  pose  for  him,  what  would  you  do  ?" 

"Tell  me,"  he  retorted  still  unsmiling,  "how  would  you 
pose?" 

From  Ordelaffi  her  gaze  travelled  back  to  Fieravanti, 
upright  and  striking  in  his  sober  greys  as  he  leaned 
against  the  gay  silken  hangings. 

"A  peasant?  Peasant  he  may  be,  but  he  is  the  finest 
man  in  the  room  and  the  handsomest.  How  would  I 
pose?  Piff!  A  woman's  a  woman  and  not  a  bundle  of 
silks  and  lawns!  What  an  Adam  he  would  make  if  I 
were  Eve!" 

"You  would  dare?  You  would  dare?"  Ordelaffi's 
voice  roughened  harshly  as,  scowling  down  upon  her,  he 
stiffened.  "What  would  I  do?  Double  my  guards  and 
make  an  end  of — — " 

"Phidias!"  she  cut  in,  showing  her  white  teeth. 

"You  both,"  he  ended,  as  if  she  had  never  interrupted, 
and  again  their  eyes  met. 

But  though  the  threat  in  his  was  naked  and  sinister, 
as  easily  to  be  read  and  more  forcible  than  in  the  words, 
the  woman  neither  shrank  nor  quailed.  Partly  it  was  her 


20  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

smooth  and  rounded  beauty  which  held  him,  but  partly 
also  her  audacious  courage:  that  it  was  audacious  she 
gave  him  instant  proof. 

"Bring  him  to  me,"  she  commanded.  "Yesterday  you 
called  me  a  greedy  kite  because  of  this  gold  chain  round 
my  neck:  well,  kite  or  no  kite  for  once  I'll  fly  at  an 
eagle,  I  am  tired  of  parrot-sport.  Oh,  not  you,  my  king; 
there  are  others  who  chatter  round  me  like  daws  and 
sparrows." 

"How  can  parrots  be  daws  and  sparrows?"  he  gibed, 
but  there  was  no  relaxing  of  the  sternly  set  mouth. 

"How  can  a  woman  be  aught  else  than  a  woman?''  she 
gibed  back.  "As  for  these  others,  they  are  whatever  I 
choose  to  call  them!  Now  fetch  this  Phidias.  What  is 
his  name?" 

"Fieravanti."  His  hand  closed  over  hers  a  moment  and 
its  pressure  crushed  the  slim  fingers  till  the  bones  ached. 
"Bemember,  I  hold  to  my  word;  though  if  ill  befell  their 
maker  of  saints  I  would  have  all  Forli  in  arms." 

"To-night  life's  life,"  she  repeated,  smiling  up  unafraid 
through  narrowed  lids.  "Fieravanti?  I  have  heard  of 
him,  though  his  saints  are  not  mine !  Fetch  him."  And 
Girolamo  Ordelaffi  went. 

A  man  of  his  times,  measuring  all  things,  whether 
men's  lives,  a  city's  liberties  or  a  woman's  honour,  by  the 
standard  of  his  own  pleasure  or  advantage,  Ordelaffi  was 
yet  no  bully.  Wheresoever  he  saw  his  way  to  advance  his 
foot  he  there  advanced  it,  careless  whom  it  crushed,  but 
bluster  was  foreign  to  his  nature.  So  it  was  a  courteous 
host,  condescending  possibly,  being  Ordelaffi  of  Forli,  but 
still  the  host,  who  greeted  Fieravanti. 

"You  are  late,  Messire  ?  If  it  was  that  you  might  dream 
another  saint  into  life  you  are  forgiven." 

"Am  I  late?  I  did  not  know  it."  The  obvious  frank 
sincerity  robbed  the  words  of  their  seeming  discourteous 


SINNERS  MADE  21 

indifference.  "And  the  loss  is  mine.  Where  in  all  Ro- 
magna  could  I,  who  love  beauty  for  beauty's  sake,  see 
such  charm?" 

"For  its  own  sake?"  repeated  Ordelaffi.  "But  whv  else 
does  any  man  love  beauty?" 

Fieravanti  laughed.  "There  are  loves  and  loves,  Lord 
Girolamo,  as  there  is  beauty  and  beauty." 

"Then  come  and  be  made  glad,  Ser  Fieravanti.  Signora 
Capponi  has  sent  me  to  fetch  you;  only,"  and  the  lines 
at  the  corners  of  Ordelaffi's  mouth  deepened  an  instant, 
"remember  your  own  saying,  there  are  loves  and  loves. 
Come." 

If,  as  Amata  Capponi  had  said,  Fieravanti  was  the 
finest  man  in  the  room  Girolamo  Ordelaffi  ran  him  close. 
His  forty  years  of  life  sat  lightly  on  his  broad  shoulders, 
nor  were  the  wrinkles  netting  his  temples  graven  deeper 
than  a  thin  cobwebbing:  even  then  they  were  due  less  to 
the  passage  of  time  than  to  taking  much  thought  for  his 
life.  Certainly,  as  side  by  side  they  crossed  the  floor, 
there  were  no  two  who  could  compare  with  them.  But 
the  sculptor's  advantage  of  ten  years  could  not  altogether 
be  hidden;  if  the  elder  was  still  in  his  prime  it  was  a 
prime  which  was  passing,  while  that  of  the  younger,  who, 
though  no  ascetic  yet  lived  ascetically,  was  yet  to  come. 
Always,  too,  there  was  this — sooner  or  later  a  man's  habit 
of  thought  writes  itself  on  his  face,  and  there,  even  in  the 
eyes  of  such  a  woman  who  awaited  them,  Ordelaffi  suf- 
fered. Those  who  love  to  share  the  cakes  and  ale,  with 
the  ginger  hot  in  the  mouth,  are  still  quick  to  see  the 
effects — in  others! 

Amata  Capponi  was  still  alone  where  Ordelaffi  had  left 
her;  that  he  would  return  was  as  understood  as  that  an 
intrusion  would  be  resented.  Therefore  the  ebb  and  flow 
passed  her  by,  leaving  her  the  centre  of  the  hollow  circle 
custom  set  apart  for  the  lordling  of  the  petty  Court,  until 


22  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

such  time  as  he  chose  to  mingle  familiarly  with  his  guests. 
That  curious  eyes  watched,  and  tongues  stabbed,  stung 
and  rent,  were  things  of  course.  For  the  latter,  the 
tongues  with  all  their  poison,  she  cared  nothing  so  long 
as  there  was  no  need  to  fear  the  first  :  that  as  yet  the  need 
to  fear  had  not  arisen  the  polished  silver  of  her  mirror 
told  her,  but  in  Fieravanti  she  looked  for  a  still  more  tri- 
umphant proof. 

While  yet  two  paces  distant  Ordelaffi  spoke,  nor  would 
any  have  guessed  how  carefully  he  chose  his  words: 

"Sweetheart,  be  kind  to  Ser  Fieravanti  for  Forli's 
sake." 

But  Fieravanti,  smiling,  put  out  a  hand  in  protest, 
"No,  Signora  !  Better  be  unkind  for  my  peace  sake." 

"That  is  pretty,  but,"  and  she  dropped  a  little  mocking 
courtsey  to  Ordelaffi,  "we  must  all  obey  my  lord!  Tell 
me  how  best  I  can  be  kind?  Is  there  any  of  me  you  would 
have  for  your  art?" 

But  in  his  art  the  sculptor  was  single-minded  and  no 
courtier.  Always  the  unknown  something  lacking  in  his 
Magdalene,  that  missing  window  of  Aladdin's  palace, 
haunted  him,  and  in  Amata  Capponi,  smiling  and  pro- 
vocative, he  found  no  revelation,  no,  not  even  by  opposites. 
Beauty?  It  was  no  mere  want  of  beauty  which  had  made 
Luca  Melone  push  out  a  doubtful  lip. 

lord  would  wish,  perhaps,  a  bust,  a  head  -  " 


But  her  height  drawn  to  its  full,  her  arms  extended  and 
curving  forward,  she  interrupted  him  sharply. 

"A  bust?  A  head?  More  than  busts  and  heads  go  to 
your  making  of  saints,  Ser  Fieravanti." 

"True!"  said  Ordelaffi,  and  added  drily,  "Something 
of  saintship,  perhaps.  What  did  I  tell  you,  Bellissima? 
You  are  not  of  the  spirit  for  Fieravanti's  Magdalene." 

"Oh,  the  spirit!  the  spirit!"  she  scoffed.  "Where  is 
the  woman  who  cannot  make  pretence  of  the  spirit  and 


SINNERS  MADE  23 

play  the  penitent  when  she  chooses?"  Whereat  Ordelaffi 
laughed,  but  Fieravanti,  unsmiling,  answered: 

"Pretences  will  not  serve,  Signora.  If  our  marble  is 
to  live  we  must  look  through  pretences,  look  to  realities, 
look  even  to  the  very " 

"Soul!"  she  gibed  vexedly  and  at  the  gibe  Fieravanti 
started.  It  was  Luca  Melone's  word. 

"If  there  are  souls  in  question  then  keep  you  away 
from  Fieravanti's  workshop/'  said  Ordelaffi.  "He  works 
in  white  marble,  sweetheart,  not  in  mottled!" 

"Mottled?  No!  Eed-veined:  blood  red  if  you  like!" 
she  retorted.  "I  am  no  milk-saint,  nor  ever  could  be 
one.  If  there  is 'fire  at  the  heart  it  will  out.  God  keep 
the  man  from  the  woman  who  is  all  ice.  Saintship? 
There  is  little  of  that  in  the  Castello,  I  think!  Hark, 
Girolamo!  Listen  to  your  saints  in  the  gaming-room 
yonder.  They  are  at  their  orisons  early  to-night:  mostly 
there  is  no  quarrelling  until  they  have  well  drunk!" 

From  either  end  of  the  main  hall  a  smaller  room  opened, 
hangings  half  looped  back  partly  masking  the  doors.  From 
one  of  these  there  came  from  time  to  time  the  sound  of 
music,  the  tinkle  of  dulcimers,  citoles,  trigons,  with  the 
fuller,  stronger,  more  piercing  note  of  the  flute.  Through 
the  other  door  men  passed  quietly  and  only  those  nearest 
caught  the  sole  sounds  within,  subdued  voices,  the  rattle 
of  dice  in  their  boxes  and  the  faint,  sharp  click  of  the 
ivory  on  the  marble  tables. 

But  suddenly  the  quiet  had  broken  up  in  storm.  From 
beyond  the  door  there  rose  an  excited  babel  of  tongues, 
with  two  or  three  voices  raised  sharply  above  the  general 
confusion.  At  once  there  was  an  instant's  panic  in  the 
interweaving  movement  of  life  flowing  in  cross  currents 
throughout  the  hall,  then  a  surge,  men  chiefly,  towards  the 
door  of  the  gaming  room,  a  disordered  tumult  met  at 
the  threshold  by  a  battling  rush  fighting  to  find  exit. 


24  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

These  meeting  jostled  in  confusion,  then  through  the 
confusion  there  pushed  a  struggling  fray  lost  to  all  sense 
of  respect  or  even  decorum. 

For  naked  swords  were  flashing  in  the  lamplight  and 
only  the  packed  congestion,  hindering  free  use,  held  thorn 
back  from  being  reddened.  But  once  in  the  larger  room 
the  meeting  throngs  clustered  to  a  rough  circle,  framing 
an  inner  group  of  three  or  four  where  heat  must  1m  \v 
flared  up  in  deadly  insolence  had  not  an  official  in  author- 
ity pushed  in  between.  Not  even  then  did  the  tumult  die, 
but  it  was  rather  a  clamour  of  angry  tongues,  a  swift  give 
and  take  of  charge  and  countercharge,  accusation  and 
denial,  than  the  threat  of  brute  force. 

"Bide  here  with  the  Signora,"  said  Ordelaffi. 

But  even  as  he  turned  wrathfully  across  the  floor  the 
packed  circle  parted,  leaving  a  narrow  laneway  open  to 
the  main  entrance.  Down  this  space  one  of  the  brawlers 
strode,  not  rapidly  nor  as  by  compulsion  but  like  a  man 
who  ends  a  jarring  scene  by  a  way  of  his  own  choosing. 
At  the  door  he  halted,  turning,  and  must  have  raised  his 
tall  height  upon  tiptoes,  for  Fieravanti  caught  a  glimpso 
of  a  comely,  defiant  face  distorted  with  passion  as  a 
clenched  fist  was  shaken  backwards  overhead:  then  with 
a  fling  of  the  hangings  he  was  gone.  A  moment  later 
Ordelaffi  returned. 

"Dice  cogging,"  he  said  curtly. 

"Proven  PJ  demanded  Fieravanti. 

"Here  is  Conti,  he  will  tell  us.  Well?  Have  they  broken 
the  dice?" 

"Loaded,  Signer." 

"Did  I  not  say  there  was  little  eaintship  in  the  Cas- 
tello  ?"  cried  Amata. 

"Mottled  marble !"  retorted  Ordelaffi.  "You  must  look 
elsewhere  for  your  white  Carrara,  Ser  Fieravanti.  Sweet- 
heart, let  us  to  supper  and  honest  wine." 


SIXXERS  MADE  25 

But  when  Amata  Capponi  would  hare  brought  him  with 
them  KeraTanti  ercoaed  himself:  needs  most  that  he 
leare  Forli  early  on  the  morrow  for  Arzano.  At  that 
Ordelaffi  paused. 

"Then  if  you  go  by  way  of  Brettinoro,  be  adrieed  and 
do  not  knock  on  old  Faldora't  door,"  he  amid  aoorly,  and 


CHAPTER  HI 

THE  AQUILA   NEEA 

THOUGH  day  had  broken,  something  of  the  gloom  of 
night  still  lingered  under  Forli's  outthrust  pent-roofs 
when,  next  morning,  Fieravanti  and  his  English  scarpel- 
lino  mounted  for  their  journey.  North  and  east  of  the 
mountains  it  is  still  cold  in  March,  and  each,  because  of 
the  biting  air,  was  muffled  to  the  throat  in  a  heavy  cloak 
whose  skirts  spread  backward  across  the  croup.  A  soft 
bonnet,  with  Fieravanti  of  velvet,  fur  bordered;  with 
Anthony  of  Flemish  cloth,  pulled  over  the  ears,  completed 
the  protection. 

Each  rode  armed,  but  whereas  the  cloak  hid  the  sculp- 
tor's sword  and  dagger  the  Englishman  carried  his  four- 
foot  cudgel  slung  full  in  view,  a  hinted  warning  for  all 
to  see.  Of  the  two,  sword  or  staff,  the  latter  when  wielded 
by  such  an  arm  as  Anthony's  might  easily  be  the  more 
effective  if  not  the  more  deadly  weapon. 

Be  sure  'Sandro  was  present  to  bid  the  Master  God's 
speed.  Bareheaded  he  stood  in  the  cold  while  Fieravanti, 
a  hand  in  his,  bade  him  farewell. 

"Rough  out  the  Agostino  lions,  my  son,  and  after  that 
take  holiday.  How  long  shall  we  be  gone  ?  That  depends 
on  Varana,  but  I'll  be  no  longer  than  I  must.  God  keep 
you !"  and  with  a  friendly  clap  on  the  shoulder  Fieravanti 
rode  on. 

"And  you,  Master,"  said  'Sandro,  nor  meant  irrever- 

26 


THE  AQUILA  NERA  27 

ence  when,  catching  the  Englishman's  bridle  as  he  passed, 
he  added,  "Bring  him  safe  home,  or  I'll  have  something 
to  say  to  you." 

"I'll  have  something  to  say  to  myself,  or  else  not  be 
here  to  say  it,"  replied  Hawk  with  a  grim  nod,  and  fol- 
lowed. 

Through  the  ill-paved  winding  streets,  with  their  twin 
line  of  ruts  worn  by  generations  of  high-wheeled  carts, 
and  many  pitfalls  whose  brimming  mud  hid  holes  deep 
enough  to  break  a  horse's  leg,  they  rode  in  single  file ;  not 
because  they  were  master  and  servant,  sculptor  and  scar* 
pellino,  but  because  there  was  not  space  to  ride  abreast  in 
comfort.  Except  in  the  direct  presence  of  others,  such  as 
Luca  Melone,  Fieravanti  treated  his  workmen  as  friends, 
brethren  of  a  common  art  who,  any  day,  might  surpass 
their  master.  So  they  ate  together,  worked  together,  rode 
together,  on  the  one  side  with  the  frank  friendliness  of 
an  acknowledged  superior  who  fears  no  presumption,  on 
the  other  with  that  affectionate  respect  which  pays  a 
deference  only  the  more  fully  because  it  is  not  enforced: 
always,  even  at  his  friendliest,  the  Master  was  master. 

Along  the  length  of  the  tortuous  streets,  now  growing 
crowded  by  a  momentarily  increasing  throng — if  Forli 
slept  early  Forli  was  no  slugabed  but  went  about  its  busi- 
ness betimes — progress  was  slow  and  so  many  were  the 
greetings  that  Fieravanti's  bonnet  was  more  often  in  his 
hand  than  on  his  head:  had  Girolamo  Ordelaffi  been  as 
certain  of  respect  he  might  have  halved  his  guards  and 
slept  easy.  By  the  time  the  Cesena  gate  was  reached  day 
was  broad. 

But  once  beyond  the  walls  a  new  world  opened.  Before 
them,  straight  as  a  stroke  ruled  upon  paper,  stretched 
the  wide  Emilian  Way,  that  vital  artery  along  which,  iii 
the  mighty  days  of  old,  Rome's  pulsing  life-blood  had 
poured  in  legions,  cohorts  and  centuries  to  strengthen  and 


28  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

sustain  the  Republic's  far-flung  provinces.  As  it  was 
•when  it  left  the  hands  of  ^Emilius  Lepidus  so  it  was  under 
the  hoofs  of  Fieravanti's  horse  and  so  it  still  remains,  a 
tremendous  and  enduring  monument  to  him  whose  name 
it  bears. 

As  the  highway  broadened  Fieravanti  checked  his  horse 
that  Anthony  might  join  him.  But  even  now  no  great 
speed  was  possible:  if  Forli  woke  early  the  folk  beyond 
the  walls  woke  yet  earlier,  and  the  dusty  road,  swept  by  a 
strong  wind  keenly  cold  from  the  mountains  on  the  right, 
was  almost  as  thronged  as  the  narrow  streets  had  been. 
But  two,  travelling  slowly  might  ride  abreast,  and  while 
they  so  rode  they  talked  of  their  common  interest,  the  work- 
shop and  its  life — as  two  men  of  the  one  trade  always  do 
when  they  foregather,  whether  soldier,  sailor  or  Jew  chap- 
man. The  first  brethren,  it  will  be  remembered,  not 
having  that  bond,  fell  out  by  the  way  with  evil  conse- 
quences. 

As  was  natural  the  thoughts  of  both  were  on  the  Magda- 
lene and  the  visit  of  inspection  paid  the  previous  day. 

"His  Grandeur!"  said  'Tonio  in  frank  contempt,  of  the 
art  critic,  be  it  understood,  not  of  the  priest.  "What 
can  he  know  of  women  I" 

"Much,  else  he  is  not  fit  for  a  priest  and  still  less  for 
a  bishop,  seeing  that  women  are  the  Church,  more  shame 
to  the  men!" 

The  Englishman  laughed.  "He  has  the  eye  of  a  priest 
sure  enough !  He  knew  beauty  when  he  saw  it !" 

"But  not  as  you  would  know  it;  only  for  the  sake  of 
the  soul  which  should  be  like  it.  'Tonio,  where " 

A  jolt  which  almost  flung  him  from  the  saddle,  as 
Anthony  Hawk's  horse,  plunging,  drove  against  him 
heavily,  cut  short  the  question:  on  the  further  side  there 
was  the  pad  of  galloping  hoofs  as  a  rider  raced  by,  flinging 


THE  AQUILA  NERA  29 

a  curt  "Out  of  my  way,  cattle,"  across  his  shoulder  as  he 
passed. 

It  was  no  more  than  a  glance,  but  Fieravanti,  quieting 
his  startled  horse,  recognised  the  face;  it  was  the  Castello 
gamester. 

With  an  oath  in  a  tongue  not  often  heard  upon  that 
ancient  highway  through  its  fifteen  centuries  the  English- 
man, recovering  his  shaken  balance,  spurred  racing  after, 
loosening  his  cudgel  from  its  loop  as  he  rode.  But  at 
Fieravanti's  shouted  command,  a  command  urgent  and  in- 
sistent, he  tightened  rein;  even  in  hot  blood  the  Master 
was  master. 

"Would  you  tire  your  horse  for  a  fool's  gibe,  and  a 
day's  journey  ahead  of  you?  though  there's  a  better  rea- 
son than  that  for  not  following.  Do  you  know  his  face?" 

"No,"  answered  Hawk,  and  added,  with  grim  intent, 
"I  will  next  time  I  see  it  and  he'll  know  I  know  it.  What 
is  the  better  reason,  Signor?" 

"That  you  would  never  catch  him !  You  are  the  heavier 
by  far  and  the  worse  mounted." 

For  an  instant  'Tonio  stared,  then,  being  a  cheery  soul, 
he  laughed  till  the  tears  came.  "Twice  a  fool !  But  we'll 
meet  sooner  or  later  in  this  small  world  and  I'll  not  forget 
his  face." 

Soon  the  Via  Emilia  was  left  behind.  Turning  sharply 
to  the  right,  where  the  Ronco  slips  down  its  broad  valley 
on  its  way  to  the  sea  at  Ravenna,  they  skirted  the  vine- 
yards, orchards  and  unhedged  pastures  bordering  its 
banks.  The  road  was  of  the  roughest,  always  up  and  up 
with  a  steadily  growing  incline  as  they  drew  nearer  to 
the  heart  of  the  mountains  where  lay  their  resting  place 
for  the  night.  Slowly,  more  clearly  with  every  mile,  the 
greater  peaks  grew  upon  them,  hedging  them  about — 
Grande,  Comero,  Falterona,  Tramiti,  now  hidden  by  the 


30  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

nearer  spurs  as  the  valley  narrowed,  now  flung  towering 
against  the  blue  of  the  March  sky  as  some  twist  in  the 
ever  changing  ascent,  some  branching  defile  cleaving  its 
way  to  right  or  left,  opened  up  vision. 

Travellers  were  few,  which  was  no  loss:  a  gain  rather: 
the  fewer  the  better  and  none  at  all  best  of  all  in  a  land 
where  man  and  nature  were  alike  untamed.  But  that 
hamlets  lay  so  far  apart  was  worse  than  a  vexation  when 
'Tonio's  horse  cast  a  shoe  and  three  hours  were  lost  hunt- 
ing a  smith:  to  ride  shoeless  over  these  stony  roads  was 
to  ride  lame. 

Because  of  the  delay  dusk  was  already  grey  and  falling 
rapidly  to  black  dark  when  they  halted  at  a  wayside  osteria 
where  four  roads  met,  to  enquire  their  distance  from 
Castel-Cavo.  The  host,  weather-beaten  and  old  before  his 
time,  answered  as  any  man  would  answer  at  whose  door 
custom  seldom  knocked. 

"Castel-Cavo!  Three  hours  by  daylight,  Signers,  and 
the  world's  end  by  night:  not  even  a  dog  could  find  the 
road  in  the  dark." 

"Three  hours?"  began  Fieravanti,  "surely  not  so 
far " 

"No,  Signer,  no :  with  the  light  gone  it  is  half  an  hour 
at  the  most,  but  a  broken  neck  to  end  the  journey.  Where 
might  your  lordships  be  bound  for?" 

"Brettinoro." 

"Brettinoro  ?"  he  repeated  briskly.  "That  settles  it. 
Brettinoro  is  a  short  day's  ride  from  Castel-Cavo  and  what 
you  lose  to-night  you  gain  to-morrow;  as  well  bide  here 
as  beyond.  Matteo  Vaga  and  the  Aquila  Nera  have  a 
reputation  of  their  own,  though  I  say  it.  But  take  your 
choice,"  and  while  he  caught  Fieravanti's  bridle  with  one 
hand  he  waved  the  other  up  the  uneven  track  already  be- 
ing lost  in  the  gloom,  "three  hours  of  that,  even  if  you 
have  the  luck  to  win  through,  or  a  fowl  on  the  spit,  good 


THE  AQUILA  NERA  31 

sound  wine  and  a  soft  bed  to  follow.  Brettinoro?  Leave 
betimes  and  you'll  be  hammering  on  their  stone  pillar  an 
hour  before  sunset.  What  better  can  you  do  from  Castel- 
Cavo?  I  mind  me — aye,  it  was  two  years  past,  there  were 
four  went  by  on  just  such  a  night;  bound  for  Brettinoro 
they  were,  too.  Next  morning  there  were  three  in  the 
torrent  and  the  fourth  hunkering  on  the  rocks,  half  crazed 
for  fear  he'd  join  them;  but  it's  as  you  will,  Signors,  as 
you  will." 

With  a  shrug  Fieravanti  dismounted.  That  the  dis- 
tance and  the  danger  were  alike  exaggerated  he  guessed, 
but  with  all  allowance  made  enough  of  both  remained  to 
make  a  halt  wisdom.  Through  the  open  door,  cavern-dark, 
an  unkempt,  weasel-faced  lad  of  twelve  or  fourteen  was 
staring ;  to  him  the  landlord,  a  man  of  action,  turned  even 
while  he  reached  out  for  the  second  bridle. 

"A  lamp,  quickly;  tell  the  little  mother,  supper  of  the 
best  for  two  and  at  once;  then  the  lantern  to  the  stables; 
stir,  now,  stir.  Get  you  in  and  rest  your  bones,  Signors; 
I'll  see  to  the  beasts;  they'll  fare  of  the  best,  as  you  will." 
He  was  loquacious  but  neither  servile  nor  obsequious; 
something  of  a  power  in  this  lonely  region,  Fieravanti 
judged,  a  man  held  in  deference  by  the  scattered  wood- 
cutters, charcoal  burners  and  goatherds  who  drank  that 
good  sound  wine  of  which  he  boasted,  and  by  whom  and 
upon  whom  the  inn  throve. 

But  with  a  day's  rough  journey  yet  to  come,  and  another 
beyond  that  on  to  Arzano,  the  sculptor  was  too  experienced 
a  traveller  to  accept  a  glib  tongue  at  its  own  valuation. 

"Give  him  a  hand,  'Tonio,"  he  directed,  and  Hawk 
knew  the  meaning  of  the  unspoken  order  was,  See  yourself 
to  their  feed  and  bedding. 

A  sliver  of  wood,  lit  at  the  fire  burning  in  the  wide 
hearth  whose  depth  was  sunk  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall, 
had  set  the  lamp  flaring  and  by  its  light  Fieravanti  saw 


32 

the  little  mother  already  busied  over  her  preparations. 
Hearing  his  step  on  the  earthen  floor  she  turned,  a  hulk 
of  a  woman  twice  her  husband's  weight  but  still  comely 
in  a  coarse  fashion.  A  shrewd  woman,  too,  he  guessed, 
probably  the  grey  mare  of  the  proverb,  her  small,  ap- 
praising eyes  were  so  alert,  so  full  of  active  speculation. 

"Supper  in  an  hour,  Signer,"  she  said,  her  voice  rich 
with  mellowness  which  must  have  been  musical  a  genera- 
tion earlier.  "Draw  the  settle  to  the  fire  and  warm  your- 
self;  you  are  late  on  the  road  for  the  time  of  year?" 

"A  horse  cast  a  shoe,"  explained  Fieravanti  as  he 
dragged  the  oaken  bench  forward. 

Pausing  in  her  work  of  piling  faggots  on  the  smoulder- 
ing embers  with  their  fine  coating  of  white  ash  she  glanced 
at  him,  "And  but  for  the  cast  shoe,  you  would  be  in 
Castel-Cavo  to-night?  Then  the  saints  are  good  to  those 
who  have  most  need !  Where  to,  to-morrow,  Signer  ?" 

"Brettinoro.    Is  the  road  good?" 

"One  good  and  one  bad,"  she  answered,  adding  more 
wood  to  the  now  blazing  heap.  "The  bad  is  the  shorter, 
the  good  the  quicker:  you'll  travel  by  it,  I  suppose?" 

"Is  the  bad  so  very  bad?" 

"Bad?  Ifs  the  devil  of  a  road.  See,  it's  like  this." 
Seizing  a  long  spit  which  served  as  poker  she  drew  a 
curved  line  from  one  side  of  the  hearth  round  in  front  of 
the  piled  faggots  to  the  other,  then  across  the  roughly 
heaped  wood  itself.  No  words  could  have  been  more 
graphic;  the  one  was  smooth  and  level,  the  other  a  maze 
of  rough  hills  and  dipping  valleys.  "Oh,  the"  devil  of  a 
road,  all  rock  and  pitfall  and  steep  enough  to  break  the 
heart  of  a  mule." 

"Boast  of  the  mountains,  but  keep  you  to  the  valleys," 
quoted  Fieravanti,  laughing,  "Thank  you  for  your  warn- 
ing. We'll  travel  through  the  white  ash,  Mother." 

"You'll  be  wise,  Signor,  you'll  be  wise — the  very  devil 


THE  AQUILA  NERA  33 

of  a  road.  Brettinoro?  Aye,  aye;  you'll  be  in  Brettinoro 
betimes,  well  before  sunset.  There!  D'you  feel  the  heat? 
Glory  be!  there's  a  fine  blaze  for  roasting/' 

And  within  fifteen  minutes  the  promised  fowl,  killed, 
prepared,  its  feathers  rubbed  off  in  a  pail  of  scalding 
water,  was  turning  from  the  jack  fixed  to  the  lintel  of  the 
great  chimney-breast,  not  a  capon  perhaps  but  savoury  and 
sufficient  for  two  men's  appetite;  nor,  when  presently  it 
came  to  be  served,  was  the  rough  wine  of  two  vintages  past 
to  be  despised. 

As  for  the  soft  bed  to  follow,  it  proved  to  be  a  huge 
sack-mattress  stuffed  with  dry  bracken,  which  the  host 
dragged  from  a  cupboard  and  stretched  in  front  of  the 
dying  fire :  with  a  coarse  homespun  blanket  and  their  own 
cloaks  as  covering,  tired  men  need  ask  little  better.  The 
household  slept  overhead,  reaching  their  quarters  by  a 
ladder  whose  end  rose  through  a  square  trap  in  the  tim- 
bered ceiling,  and  with  the  sun  but  little  more  than  two 
hours  set  there  was  not  a  sound  except  the  sinking  of  the 
fire  and  the  squeaking  of  mice  in  the  corners. 

But  if  Forli  awoke  with  the  sun  the  Aquila  Nera 
roused  while  night  was  yet  black.  Fieravanti,  restless 
through  a  blood-letting  which  was  not  to  the  profit  of  the 
inn,  was  fully  roused  while  the  darkness  was  still  shadow- 
less  by  a  cautious  stir  overhead  and  the  whispering  of 
voices.  There  were  no  words,  only  changing  incoherencics, 
but  without  doubt  all  three  were  awake;  the  treble  of  the 
lad,  the  hoarse  roughness  of  the  innkeeper  and  the  little 
mother's  rich  mellowness  were  in  turn  to  be  distinguished, 
and  of  the  three  it  was  the  woman  who  spoke  most  Then 
came  the  shuffle  of  clumsy  feet  making  the  more  noise  for 
striving  to  keep  quiet,  and  the  tap,  tap,  of  wooden-soled 
boots  on  the  rungs  of  the  ladder. 

From  the  sound  Fieravanti  judged  that  the  boy — Gian 
they  called  him — was  descending,  but  so  utterly  dark  was 


34 

the  solid  gloom  that  no  movement  was  visible.  With  the 
last  of  the  tapping  the  earthen  floor  was  dumb,  but 
laboured  breath  told  of  the  effort  to  compel  quietness: 
the  oak  beam  closing  the  door  gave  little  sound  as  it  was 
swung  upright,  there  was  a  rush  of  cold  air,  a  glimpse  of 
a  sky  heavy  with  clouds  faintly  washed  by  the  grey  dawn, 
and  again  the  solid  gloom  of  the  black  dark.  Overhead 
the  woman's  voice  whispered  on,  then  ceased  and  for 
another  hour  there  was  quiet,  but  if  they  slept  overhead 
Fieravanti,  stretched  by  the  warmth  of  the  ashed-over 
embers,  did  not. 

With  the  first  clear  paling  of  the  gloom  life  awoke  afresh, 
this  time  with  such  brisk  frankness  that  'Tonio  had  their 
bed  rolled  aside  and  the  embers  blown  into  a  new  day's 
fire  before  Vaga  appeared. 

Nor  did  the  Aquila  Nera  disgrace  its  over-nighfs  repu- 
tation. The  eggs  were  fresh,  the  rye  bread  sweet  and 
wholesome,  the  wine  the  sound  rough  wine  of  the  past 
night's  supper.  At  Castel-Cavo,  Fieravanti  told  himself, 
they  would  have  fared  no  better  even  for  a  more  copious 
blood-letting:  with  the  sun  at  eight  they  were  ready  to 
mount.  And  while  Vaga  made  ready  the  horses  the  little 
mother  talked,  like  the  wise  woman  she  was,  of  the  day  to 
come  and  the  choice  of  roads  to  Brettinoro :  clearly,  in  her 
confirmed  opinion,  the  longest  way  round  was  the  shortest 
way  there. 

"Gian?"  queried  Fieraranti  in  an  interval  of  silence. 

"Eh?  Gian?  Was  your  worship  wakened?"  Gian's 
mother,  like  the  good  hostess  she  was,  looked  troubled. 
"Gian  has  gone  to  seek  a  strayed  goat ;  they  are  a  plague, 
these  villains  of  goats,"  and  with  that  Vaga  appeared  in 
the  wide  open  doorway  which  was  the  true  window  of  the 
four-square  room,  kitchen,  wine  shop  and  living-room  in 
one. 

With  the  reckoning  paid,  and  a  hand  still  holding  the 


THE  AQUILA  NERA  35 

bridle  as  Fieravanti  mounted,  the  innkeeper  asked  a  ques- 
tion which  had  been  burning  his  tongue  all  morning;  not 
many  travellers  halted  at  the  Aquila  Nera  for  the  night 
and  gossip  sold  wine;  men  drank  while  they  talked  or 
listened. 

"What  name,  Signer,  if  I  may  make  so  bold?" 

"No  great  one  to  gild  the  feathers  of  your  black  eagle. 
Men  call  me  Fieravanti." 

"Marco  Fieravanti  of  Forli,"  said  'Tonio  and  said  it 
with  emphasis,  being  jealous  for  the  Master's  reputation. 
If  he  had  proclaimed  His  Magnificence,  Can  Grande 
della  Scala  of  Verona,  he  would  have  said  it  with  less 
assumption :  there  were  many  Can  Grandes  in  the  cockpit 
of  Italy  but  God  had  made  only  one  Marco  Fieravanti. 

"Fieravanti  of  Forli  ?"  repeated  Vaga,  his  eyes  suddenly 
alert  "Not— not " 

"Yes,"  said  'Tonio,  pride  in  every  curt  syllable.  "Fiera- 
vanti of  Forli,  just  that." 

"Fieravanti,  the  Maker  of  Saints?"  The  March  wind 
blew  cold  at  that  hour  these  many  feet  above  the  sea,  but 
Vaga  bared  his  head  in  haste.  "Why,  in  San  Giovanni  of 
('astel-Cavo  we  have " 

"Our  Lady  of  Mercy,  Fieravanti  of  Forli's  carving," 
ended  'Tonio.  "Just  so." 

Vaga  shot  a  swift  glance  at  the  little  mother  as  she 
stood  listening  from  the  hollow  square  of  the  open  double 
doors.  Her  great  bulk  seemed  greater  to  the  eye  than 
ever  as  the  sunlight  brought  fully  out  the  more  than 
motherly  depth  of  bosom  and  the  rounded,  fleshy  muscles 
filling  the  stout  homespun  sleeves  to  a  stretching  of 
seams;  but  the  broad,  comely  face  was  expressionless; 
quite  plainly,  Gian  and  the  lost  goat,  or  the  roughness  of 
the  shorter  devil  of  a  road  to  Brettinoro  was  more  to  her 
than  San  Giovanni's  Mother  of  Mercy. 

"A  good  journey,  Signer,"  she  said  placidly.    "There  is 


36  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

no  need  to  set  them  on  the  road,  Matteo:  a  child  could 
not  miss  it  by  day,  and  with  Gian  hunting  that  villain  of 
a  goat  there's  much  to  be  done." 

The  hint  was  broad  but  Vaga's  hand  did  not  loosen  the 
bridle.  "Fieravanti  of  Forli?  Fieravanti  the  carver  of 
Our  Lady  ?"  he  said  almost  like  a  man  in  a  dream,  or  with 
his  thoughts  far  away,  possibly  in  the  incense-sweetened 
air  of  the  dim  church :  then,  and  suddenly,  both  voice  and 
face  changed:  the  hint  of  awe  passed  from  his  voice  as 
he  went  on  impressively,  "Signer,  that  upper  road— 

"A  road  for  lost  goats,"  said  the  little  mother's  mellow 
voice,  breaking  in.  "If  the  Signer  would  founder  his 
horse,  or  break  its  heart  let  him  go  by  the  upper  road." 

"Is  the  shorter  by  three  leagues,"  he  went  on,  unheeding. 
"Nowhere  will  you  find  such  a  sight  of  our  mountains. 
If  I  were  you,  Signer " 

"Shorter  by  three  leagues  and  longer  by  three  hours," 
said  the  little  mother,  always  placidly.  "It  is  as  I  say: 
ask  at  Castel-Cavo  if  you  will,  Signors  both.  If  you  see 
Gian,  bid  him  hasten  back ;  there  is  much  to  be  done,  and 
the  day  passes." 

"Nowhere  in  our  mountains  are  there  such  sights;  and 
it  is  less  than  three  hours  longer;  less,  Signer,  less." 
Matteo  Vaga  was  very  persistent. 

"More  with  a  foundered  horse;  and  every  five  minutes 
now  is  five  minutes  later  at  the  other  end,"  said  the  wise 
woman  in  the  open  doorway.  "The  Signors  will  have 
enough  of  the  hills  before  they  see  Arzano,  and  you  know 
it,  Matteo.  If  you  meet  Gian  with  the  goat,  Signer,  bid 
him  hasten,"  and  with  a  gesture  of  the  hand  holding  the 
soiled  bonnet,  a  gesture  which  might  have  meant  despair, 
resignation  or  simple  protest  at  a  woman's  wilfulness, 
Vaga  stood  aside. 

"God  keep  you,"  was  all  he  said,  but  he  said  it  with 
conviction. 


THE  AQUILA  NERA  37 

"Thanks  for  your  thought  and  for  much  more,"  said 
Fieravanti,  smiling  down  on  the  two  who  had  drawn  to- 
gether, the  woman  with  her  large,  strong  hand  on  the 
man's  shoulder.  "If  the  pillar  at  Brettinoro  opens  as  hos- 
pitable a  door  we  shall  do  well,"  and  he  rode  on. 

But  once  out  of  earshot  'Tonio  said,  "Now  why  did 
Vaga  change  his  tune  at  the  last  like  that?" 

"You  forget,"  answered  Fieravanti,  "It  was  not  his 
tune  at  all,  it  was  the  little  mother's.  But  we  shall  ask 
at  Castel-Cavo." 

Turning  in  the  saddle  he  waved  farewell  to  the  two, 
still  standing  before  the  inn  door.  It  was  the  woman  who 
responded  with  a  broad  palm  in  the  air,  friendly  fashion; 
the  other  hand  still  rested  on  Vaga's  shoulder.  And  as 
she  waved  her  hand  she  was  saying,  tolerant  contempt 
sharpening,  but  not  acidly,  her  pleasant,  full-chested  voice : 

"Thou  and  thy  saints !  Have  sense,  Matteo  my  man, 
have  sense.  What  did  the  saints  ever  do  for  you  or  for 
me?  But  your  foolish  talk  will  make  no  difference;  they 
will  go  by  the  lower  road;  you'll  see." 

"And  every  time  I  kneel  in  Our  Lady's  chapel  yonder 
at  Castel-Cavo  the  thought  of  who  carved  her  will  come 
between  me  and  my  prayer " 

"Is  that  the  bone  in  your  throat?  Keep  to  the  far 
side  of  the  pillar  and  you'll  not  see  the  man's  marble; 
what  the  eye  does  not  see  the  heart  need  not  fret  over." 
Again  she  waVed  her  hand  as  Fieravanti  turned  for  the 
last  time  at  the  bend  in  the  road.  "And  there's  this — 
perhaps  I  was  wrong,  arid  the  saints  have  done  us  a  good 
turn.  Who  else  was  it  that  sent  them  here?  Why  was 
the  shoe  cast  if  not  to  send  them  to  the  Aquila  Nera  and 
on  by  the  lower  road,  tell  me  that?  Besides,  why  trouble 
too  soon?  Gian  may  not  warn  Lippo  in  time,  which  would 
be  a  pity;  he  carries  a  full  purse,  does  your  maker  of 
saints.  Gian  will  be  none  the  worse  for  our  share  when 


38  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

our  day  is  done.  Aye,  and  there's  this  too — he  will  have 
to  carve  more  saints  than  ever  if  only  to  fill  the  purse 
again,  and  that  will  make  for  righteousness." 

"But  Lippo  is  savage  under  the  skin  and  may " 

"The  more  reason  to  keep  Lippo  on  our  side.  And  there's 
this — Lippo  won't  hurt  him  unless  he  must.  Why  fret 
yourself  over  what  may  never  happen?  And  if  it  is  to 
happen,  why,  happen  it  will ;  so  again  why  fret  yourself  ?" 
Which  was  sound  sense,  and  proves  that  good  fruit  may 
grow  out  of  foul  soil.  It  also  shows  how  shrewd  a  woman 
was  the  little  mother;  in  the  one  breath  she  had  argued 
Gian's  gain  and  almost  proved  that  theft  by  violence  was 
a  virtue,  since  Fieravanti's  empty  pocket  would  be  to  the 
greater  glory  of  God!  Human  nature  is  always  good  at 
finding  reasons  of  the  highest  for  doing  a  baseness  it 
greatly  desires. 


CHAPTER  IV 
"RIDE  FAST" 

THOUGH  Fieravanti  was  not  surprised  to  find  Castel- 
Cavo  little  more  than  one  half  of  Vaga's  "three  hours  by 
day  light,"  he  did  not  regret  the  earlier  halt.  It  was  not 
simply  that  the  road,  winding  as  it  did  now  by  the  edge 
of  a  sheer  fall,  now  dipping  to  the  bed  of  a  roaring  torrent, 
was  dangerous  to  travel  over  through  the  velvet  blackness 
of  a  March  night,  but  the  hill  town  itself  stirred  no  re- 
pentance of  the  Aquila  Nera. 

Grey  as  a  wasp's  nest,  Castel-Cavo  with  its  dominating 
spire  of  San  Giovanni  delicately  beautiful  against  the 
open  sky,  was  picturesque  enough  from  the  opposite  side 
of  the  little  valley  which  sheltered  the  point  of  rock  round 
whose  apex  the  town  clustered.  But  the  realities  of  close 
acquaintance  spoiled  the  picture.  Its  winding  streets, 
paved  with  slippery,  time-worn  cobbles  and  too  narrow  to 
permit  a  wheeled  vehicle  to  pass  along  their  length,  smelt 
so  foully  that  not  even  the  keen  wind,  cold  from  a  score  of 
mountain  ridges  where  snow  still  lingered  to  the  north, 
could  sweeten  their  evil  breath. 

A  frowning  gate,  broad  with  the  breadth  of  the  ancient 
walls,  spanned  the  roadway.  The  portcullis  hanging  from 
the  arch,  and  barred  to  the  thickness  of  a  man's  arm,  hinted 
its  own  tale  of  a  hard  life  hardly  held.  There  Fieravanti 
halted  to  make  enquiry. 

"Brettinoro  ?"  The  sergeant  of  the  guard  himself  came 
out  to  make  answer.  "Yes,  there  are  two  roads  to  Bret- 
tinoro. The  better?  Some  say  one,  some  the  other.  See! 

39 


40  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

it  is  like  this."  Opening  a  hand  palm  outwards  he  smacked 
a  doubled  fist  upon  it.  "You  can  go  over  the  knuckles 
or  round  by  the  joints,  just  as  you  please.  Over  is  the 
shorter,  but  there's  little  to  choose  in  time." 

"And  what  do  you  advise?" 

"Bound  is  easier  on  the  beasts.  Only,  round  or  over, 
better  have  your  hand  on  a  knocker  before  sunset." 

"Are  the  roads  so  bad,  or  is  it  wolves?" 

"Wolves  on  two  legs,  Signor :  thieves,  to  be  plain.  They 
do  not  often  show  a  face  to  the  daylight,  but  best  lose 
no  time." 

"Thanks  for  your  hint,  friend.  What  do  you  know  of  the 
Aquila  Nera  below  there?" 

"Decent  folk,  Signor." 

"So  I  thought,  but  one  said  one  road,  the  other  the 
other." 

The  sergeant  laughed.  "So  they  would,  Signor.  The 
little  mother,  as  he  calls  her,  likes  her  own  way." 

"Then  she  shall  have  it,  since  it  is  easier  on  the  horses. 
Which  do  you  say,  'Tonio?" 

"The  lower,  Signor.  There's  no  speed  to  be  made  over 
ridges  such  as  these,"  and  the  scarpellino  nodded  with 
grim  humour  at  the  knuckles  where  the  big  bones  of  the 
sergeant's  fist  still  rose  clenched  from  the  broad  palm. 

But  the  road  was  no  such  level  road  as  the  little  mother's 
sweeping  curve  through  the  white  ash  of  the  hearth  would 
have  suggested.  Certainly  it  hugged  the  side  of  the  moun- 
tain spurs  round  which  it  wound  its  way,  but  now  it  so 
mounted  a  rocky  headland,  now  dipped  so  abruptly  into 
a  wooded  ravine  to  rise  no  less  abruptly  at  the  further 
side,  or  laid  bare  its  bones  to  a  foaming  stream  whose 
force  and  weight  cried  caution  in  the  fording,  that  prog- 
ress was  necessarily  slow. 

And  it  was  a  lonely  world,  solitary  rather  than  deso- 
late, a  world  where  the  few  who  wrestled  doggedly  with 


"RIDE  FAST"  41 

nature  for  their  right  to  live  clustered  together  as  much  for 
mutual  heartening,  lest  the  brooding  of  the  eternal  hills 
should  crush  the  spirit,  as  for  mutual  protection.  Thus 
there  were  wide  ranges  of  solitude,  broad  silences  given 
over  to  a  wild  life  as  yet  too  unthreatened  by  man  to  be 
furtive  at  the  sight  of  him,  dim  woodlands,  forests  almost, 
of  pine,  oak,  and  chestnut,  virgin  as  in  primal  days  be- 
fore men  were,  save  for  the  narrow  rutted  roads,  hacked 
through  their  sunless  gloom,  roads  wet  even  at  midday 
from  the  night's  dews,  so  over-hung  were  they.  Linking 
these  were  far-flung  stretches  of  tumbled  rock ;  rock  living 
and  rooted  in  its  central  matrix,  rock  torn  from  the 
upper  ridges  and  hurled  crashing  valley-wards,  like  the 
curse  of  ancient  Sisyphus,  until  some  upheaved  barrier, 
thrusting  out  a  forbidding  shoulder,  stayed  its  course,  but 
each,  whether  rooted  or  far-flung,  alike  lichened  white  and 
brown  and  yellow  to  the  greater  glory  of  God. 

But  it  was  not  altogether  a  solitary  world.  Scattered 
through  these  silences,  bedded  in  them,  as  it  were,  and 
strung  upon  the  thread  of  the  road  like  grey  beads  upon 
a  seeming  endless  chain,  were  rare  congeries  of  stone- 
built,  squat  huts.  Outposts  of  man's  advanced  warfare 
upon  nature,  their  nearness  was  heralded  by  rough  pas- 
tures, pitifully  sniall  and  as  yet  no  more  than  half  cleared, 
leading  to  still  smaller  fields  where  rye  and  barley  pushed 
greenly  through  the  hard-won  soil. 

A  rough  world,  a  world  in  process  of  being  made  over 
anew,  a  stubborn  and  silent  world  but  not  desolate.  No ! 
Where  beauty  and  effort  are  there  may  be  solitude,  but 
never  that  sullen  desolation  which  is  a  weariness  of  the 
spirit. 

At  one  of  these  hamlets — village  is  too  large  a  word — 
the  travellers  shared  with  poverty  its  midday  meal  of 
grey-black  bread  and  cabbage  soup  thickened  with  barley 
meal.  They  had  picked  their  hosts  at  hazard,  their  request 


42  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

for  food  meeting  with  an  apathetic  rather  than  a  grudged 
assent  Nor  was  there  any  show  of  curiosity  while  they 
ate.  There  is  something  of  the  chameleon  in  us  all;  un- 
consciously we  receive  and  reflect  our  surroundings.  These 
dwellers  amid  the  silences  were  themselves  silent.  Per- 
haps they  had  not  Matteo  Vaga's  need  to  be  garrulous, 
perhaps  they  knew  that  travellers  from  Castel-Cavo  must 
needs  be  bound  for  Brettinoro,  but  no  questions  were  asked 
as  at  the  Aquila  Nera.  The  very  children,  shy  and  furtive, 
ate  wide-eyed  and  staring  but  dumb.  To  Fieravanti's  en- 
quiries monosyllabic  answers  were  returned,  not  from  dis- 
courtesy, but  because  rising  early,  bedding  weariness  with 
the  sun  and  labouring  solitary  amid  solitudes  in  between, 
the  habit  of  few  words  had  grown  upon  them:  a  vocabu- 
lary of  five  hundred  words  would  have  over-run  their 
need.  Insensibly,  through  that  chameleon-likeness,  FieriJ- 
vanti  fell  into  their  custom. 

"How  far  to  Brettinoro?" 

"Six  hours,  Signor." 

"And  the  roads  P' 

A  twist  of  the  shoulders,  a  spreading  of  the  open  hands 
palm  upwards,  a  pushing  out  of  the  under  lip  in  depreca- 
tion saved  speech  and  was  reply  sufficient :  the  roads  were 
neither  good  nor  bad,  and  with  that  conversation  failed. 

But  when  Fieravanti  drew  out  that  full  purse  whose 
emptying  by  Lippo  the  little  mother  held  would  advance 
the  greater  glory  of  God  and  enrich  Gian  later  on,  speech 
came,  though  hesitatingly. 

"Grazie,  signer.  Were  we  not  so  poor  I  would  say  no, 
but  as  you  see,  there  are  the  little  ones  and  so  for  their 
sakes,  Grazie  again." 

He  paused,  measuring  the  height  of  the  sun,  then 
glanced  at  the  children  into  whose  lean,  brown  hands  Fiera- 
vanti was  slipping  silver  coins,  and  finally  searched  his 


"RIDE  FAST"  43 

wife's  face  enquiringly.  Understanding,  she  nodded.  So 
encouraged  he  spoke  again,  this  time  earnestly. 

"Signors  both,  ride  fast.  It  is  later  than  you  think 

and  the  roads "  Again  he  paused,  searching  his  scanty 

store  of  words.  "The  roads  are  not  good  in  the  shadows." 

"Thieves  ?'' 

"For  God's  sake  do  not  say  I  told  you.  He's  a  cruel 
devil,  Lippo:  he  would  burn  the  roof  over  our  heads  and 
the  mother  with  the  children." 

"Six  hours  to  Brettinoro?"  In  turn  Fieravanti  glanced 
upward.  The  sun  had  certainly  passed  its  meridian;  in 
less  than  six  hours  it  would  set  and  already  their  horses 
had  done  a  fair  day's  work.  "Thanks,  friend,  for  your 
warning.  Neither  Lippo  nor  any  one  else  shall  hear  of  it. 
Who  is  this  Lippo?" 

But  already  repentance  had  come;  travellers  passed  but 
Lippo  remained.  Better  a  stranger  should  lose  a  purse 
than  a  loose  tongue  risk  the  mother  and  the  children — to 
say  nothing  of  his  own  skin;  and  even  if  this  traveller 
should  keep  silence  Lippo  might  hear:  Lippo  had  ears 
everywhere.  Shifting  his  gaze  he  turned  his  dull  eyes 
downwards  where,  sloping  from  the  road,  miles  upon  miles 
of  a  waste  world  stretched  into  the  misty  distance,  ravines 
to  right  and  left  drawing  together  to  descend  in  the  one 
valley  to  that  Via  Emilia  Fieravanti  had  quitted  the  day 
before  and,  further  to  the  right,  a  projecting  rocky  spur 
along  whose  face  wound  the  road  to  Brettinoro.  Had  he 
but  known  it,  under  shelter  of  the  bare  trees  fourteen- 
year-old  Gian  Vaga  was  hastening  homeward  across  the 
upper  neck  of  the  valley,  nor  was  there  a  villain  of  a 
goat  to  hinder  his  speed. 

"How  should  I  know  who  he  is,  Signor?  To  find  bread 
for  five  mouths  is  enough  for  me.  But  the  sooner  you  are 
on  the  road  the  better,  so  I'll  fetch  the  horses." 


44  A  MAKEE  OF  SAINTS 

"Go  you  and  help  the  father,"  said  the  woman,  pushing 
the  two  elder  children  from  the  open  door.  Stooping,  she 
1  if  ted  the  youngest,  a  solemn-eyed,  impassive  girl  of  three. 
With  the  curly  black  head  cuddled  between  chin  and 
shoulder  she  turned  to  Fieravanti.  "Who  Lippo  is  we 
do  not  know;  it's  what  he  is  that  matters." 

"True!"  said  Fieravanti  as  she  paused.  "In  the  long 
run  it  is  the  what  we  are,  not  the  who,  that  counts.  And 
this  Lippo?" 

"A  brute,  signor,  ride  fast." 

"Will  he  fight?"  It  was  'Tonio  who  asked.  His  in- 
stincts rather  lay  that  way. 

"Not  that!"  The  cry  was  that  of  a  woman's  sudden 
hurt,  a  woman's  sudden  fear.  "For  the  love  of  Mary,  not 
that — not  that !  Give  him  what  he  asks,  it  is  cheapest." 

"For  him/'  said  'Tonio,  and  with  that  there  came  the 
ring  of  the  horse  hoofs. 

Mounted  and  ready  to  start  Fieravanti  had  another 
question,  a  natural  sequence  to  Anthony  Hawk's  enquiry 
and  the  woman's  affrighted  protest. 

"This  Lippo,  how  many  has  he  with  him?" 

"How  should  I  know,  Signor?"  From  where  he  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  road  the  peasant  glanced  up  at  his 
roof-tree.  "Stones  burn,  though  you  may  not  think  it — 
the  mother  with  the  children!" 

"Do  you  know  San  Giovanni  of  Castel-Cavo  ?"  asked 
'Tonio. 

"Surely."  Though  both  answered  it  was  into  the 
woman's  eyes  that  the  light  flashed. 

"And  the  statue  of  Our  Blessed  Lady  of  Mercy?" 

"Surely."  This  time  only  the  woman  spoke.  From  the 
eager  heartiness  of  the  assent  it  was  clear  that  in  some 
sorrow  or  another  she  had  had  much  need  of  Our  Blessed 
Lady  of  Mercy. 

"The  Master's  chiselling,"  said  Hawk,  his  glance  shifting 


"BIDE  FAST"  45 

to  Fieravanti  a  moment.  Turning  to  the  woman  again  he 
added,  "It  was  the  Master  who  asked,  How  many  has 
Lippo." 

For  a  moment  she  stared  him  back  in  silence,  the  eager 
interest  warm  in  the  blood  colouring  her  wind-bitten 
cheeks,  then  the  gaze  shifted  to  her  husband.  But  he  had 
half  turned  aside,  his  dull  eyes  on  the  broad,  slaty  stones 
roofing  their  hovel,  for  it  was  little  better.  His  face  was 
expressionless,  but  if  he  had  any  clear  thought  at  all  it 
was  that  they  would  have  sore  need  of  Our  Lady  of  Mercy 
if  Lippo  took  offence:  only  a  fool  meddled  with  Lippo, 
and  he  never  meddled  twice.  Though  this  carver  of  Our 
Lady  held  his  peace  their  own  child's  prattle  might  destroy 
them.  But  the  woman  was  not  content  to  leave  the 
Master's  question  without  reply.  Now  and  then  a  Vaga 
may  be  touched  by  the  message  of  art  in  the  service  of 
religion  but  it  is  the  women  who  are  the  Church.  Sud- 
denly she  laid  a  hand  on  the  elder  boy. 

"Nello,  tell  the  signor  how  many  fingers  thou  Last  on 
both  hands  and  how  many  Luca?" 

"Ten  and  ten-twenty,"  said  Nello  promptly,  and 
stretched  his  own  out  in  demonstration. 

"Good!     Twenty!     But  to  sup  thy  soup,  how  many?" 

"Five !" 

"So !  Five  at  a  time  are  enough,  but  there  are  twenty 
if  need  be.  God's  power  keep  you,  signor." 

"Amen!"  answered  Fieravanti.  "And  thank  you  for 
more  than  a  meal.  There  is  no  such  help  along  the  rough 
roads  of  life  as  the  warm  heart  of  a  good  woman." 

"Oh,  there's  better  than  that!"  she  called  after  him, 
"the  love  of  one,  signor,  the  love  of  one.  May  you  find  it 
in  Brettinoro !'' 

Bonnet  in  hand  Fieravanti  turned  in  saddle.  "Supper 
and  a  bed  will  content  met  God  send  you  a  sound  roof- 
tree." 


46  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

"Lippo  is  near  and  God  far  off/'  said  the  man,  half 
under  his  breath.  The  cold  fit  was  still  heavy  upon  him. 

"Lippo  will  never  know.  And,  after  all,  what  was  it 
you  said!" 

"Enough  and  too  much.  Off  with  you  to  the  stony 
field,  Nello,  thou  and  Luca.  Here's  March  on  us  and  a 
day  half  wasted." 

But  so  long  as  the  travellers  were  in  sight  the  woman 
stood  gazing  after  them,  her  three-year-old  girl-child 
caught  in  her  arms.  Eemembering  Our  Lady  of  Mercy 
in  San  Giovanni  of  Castel-Cavo  she  could  not  believe  that 
God  was  further  off  than  Lippo  of  the  Brettinoro  Eoad. 


CHAPTER  V 

LIPPO 

FAVOURED  by  a  level  stretch  of  highway,  the  maker  of 
saints  pushed  on  as  rapidly  as  he  dared  in  prudence  with 
a  half  tired  horse  under  him,  and  six  hours  of  an  un- 
known road  to  be  faced.  The  peasant's  sudden  fit  of 
cold  fear  had  impressed  him  more  deeply  than  any  out- 
poured torrent  of  words,  and  for  this  reason — Upon  the 
remoter  country  highways  Lippos  were  common,  too  com- 
mon to  be  feared  greatly  since,  for  the  most  part,  they 
wen-  a  cowardly  breed  preying  only  on  the  weak,  but  here 
was  a  Lippo  with  a  difference.  A  cruel  devil,  said  the 
man,  speaking  out  of  conviction  and  before  his  terrors 
choked  him ;  a  brute,  said  the  woman,  meaning  something 
yet  stronger:  and  yet  Lippo's  kind  were  usually  in  favour 
with  the  peasants,  from  whom  they  drew  their  supplies, 
paying  liberally.  But  presently  rising  ground  broke  the 
pace  and  Anthony  Hawk  drew  alongside. 

"Five?"  he  said  interrogatively. 

"Five  who  will  fight." 

"And  we,  Signor?" 

"Two  who  will  fight,"  answered  Fieravanti  laconically, 
and  'Tonic's  grey  eyes  lit  up.  As  has  been  said,  his  in- 
stincts lay  that  way. 

It  is  a  quality  of  love  that,  however  deep  the  devotion, 
however  prolonged  the  dearness,  however  broad  the  affec- 
tion, there  always  remains  an  unknown  country  with  new 
fields  to  explore,  undreamed  springs  to  be  tapped.  The 
Master's  art  had  long  held  'Tonio's  imagination  captive; 

47 


48  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

from  their  first  meeting,  now  many  months  earlier,  the 
Master's  frank  kindliness  to  an  alien  and  a  stranger  had 
compelled  a  devotion  growing  deeper  with  every  day  of 
deeper  knowledge,  and  ripening  at  last  into  love  as  such 
devotion  must  ripen  if  rooted  in  worthy  soil.  To  the 
consummate  artist?  Yes!  To  the  generous-hearted 
friend?  Yes,  again:  but  never  had  his  heart  opened  its 
doors  as  now  to  this  new  Fieravanti,  a  maker  of  saints 
indeed  and  yet  a  man  like  himself.  Let  students  of 
human  nature  say  what  they  will  of  the  attraction  of  op- 
posites,  it  is  the  likeness  to  what  we  think  greatest  in  our- 
selves that  grips  and  binds:  a  modest  soul  in  his  art  An- 
thony Hawk  knew  himself  for  a  man.  Now  he  laughed 
joyously  as  he  tapped  the  handle  of  the  four-foot  staff 
hung  from  his  saddle. 

"How  soon?" 

"Too  soon  and  no  jest,"  answered  Fieravanti.  He  was 
grave  to  sternness,  nor  was  there  any  echo  of  the  other's 
gaiety  in  his  voice.  "Did  you  catch  the  woman's  mean- 
ing? Don't  fight — never  that!  Why?  Lest  a  man  should 
take  hurt?  Simple  hurts  are  common,  so  common  that 
I  would  wager  not  a  month  passes  but  one  or  other  takes 
hurt  in  the  fields.  Would  such  a  hurt  frighten  her  as  she 
was  frightened?  No!  But  Lippo  is  a  brute,  and  God 
pity  the  man  who  rouses  the  cruel  devil  in  him.  How 
soon?  My  hope  is,  not  at  all.  Six  hours  to  Brettinoro? 
A  peasant  who  tramps  the  roads  is  a  poor  judge  of  a 
horse's  pace;  with  luck  we  shall  hammer  Faldora's 
knocker  before  nightfall. 

"It  is  my  belief,"  said  'Tonio  more  soberly,  "that  this 
Lippo  will  not  wait  for  nightfall. 

"Not  if  he  were  warned.  There !  If  s  down  hill  again ; 
push  on  while  we  can." 

"But,"  persisted  Hawk,  as  again  they  broke  into  a 
trot,  "how  soon,  if  at  all?" 


LIPPO  49 

should  I  know?  But  my  guess  is — within  an 
hour  of  Brettinoro." 

Thereafter,  the  narrowness  of  the  road  keeping  them 
apart,  there  was  not  much  talk  between  them.  Now  one 
led,  now  the  other,  but  as  the  afternoon  drew  on  An- 
thony Hawk  pressed  to  the  front  and  having  the  lead 
kept  it.  If  Fieravanti  noted  the  manoeuvre  he  made  no 
comment.  Throughout  the  day  travellers  had  been  few 
but  now,  except  for  a  rare  peasant,  they  had  the  road 
to  themselves.  The  reason  was  plain;  with  a  long  day's 
journey  to  the  nearest  town  to  be  faced,  no  man  would  be 
so  foolish  as  to  quit  the  safe  shelter  of  Brettinoro  except 
in  the  morning,  lest  darkness  overtake  him  on  the  road. 

Therefore  when,  at  the  end  of  a  stretch  of  open  level 
road,  a  solitary  horseman  moved  from  the  shadows,  halted 
a  moment  the  better  to  observe  them,  turned  rein  and 
disappeared,  they  knew  that  Lippo  was  on  the  watch. 
Commonly  'Tonio,  who  still  led,  would  have  looked  to 
the  Master  for  guidance  but  not  now.  From  the  first  his 
mind  had  been  made  up,  his  plan,  the  simplest  plan  in 
the  world,  was  clear  in  his  head,  nor  was  there  any  need 
of  memory  of  'Sandro's  muttered,  "Bring  him  home  safe.'* 

Always  he  had  been  a  little  jealous  of  'Sandro — 
'Sandro  was  of  the  Master's  nation,  'Sandro  could  open 
his  heart  as  few  of  'Tonio's  race  ever  can;  without  doubt, 
and  very  naturally,  'Sandro  was  better  beloved.  Here  was 
an  opportunity  to  prove  a  love  that  could  not  lay  itself 
bare  in  words;  very  blithely  Anthony  Hawk  pushed  his 
tired  horse  a  little  further  to  the  front,  loosening  his 
cudgel  as  he  drove  ahead  but  keeping  it  hidden  under  the 
skirts  of  his  long  cloak. 

"To  break  through  is  best."  he  called  across  his  shoulder 
and  cantered  on. 

Meanwhile  Lippo's  sentinel  had  brought  word  that  the 
sheep  sent  to  their  shearing  were  at  hand.  Fat  towns- 


50  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

folk,  Gian  had  called  them  in  his  contempt  of  a  single 
gword.  The  weapon  of  the  peasant,  who  carried  no 
sword,  is  a  ready  knife  and  so,  naturally,  to  'Tonio's  staff 
he  had  given  never  a  thought.  The  oversight  had  its 
effect.  Moved  by  the  contempt,  Lippo  had  brought  but 
three  of  his  score  with  him.  A  display  of  too  great  force 
was  not  always  discreet,  it  provoked  comment,  and  unlike 
most  of  the  world,  Lippo  had  no  crave  for  notoriety. 

But  the  maker  of  saints  was  not  the  man  to  follow 
tamely  on  the  heels  of  his  scarpellino.  Eound  the  point 
which  had  swallowed  up  the  lier-in-wait  it  was  a  neck 
and  neck  race,  only  to  find  that  to  break  through  was  not 
possible — Lippo  was  too  old  a  shearer  of  sheep  to  allow 
one  of  the  flock  to  slip  through  his  itching  fingers. 

The  road  narrowed;  a  ditch  on  either  side,  and  beyond 
the  ditch  a  tangle  of  undergrowth  over-spread  by  trees 
whose  stark  branches  almost  met  overhead,  raised  barriers 
no  horse  could  face.  Across  this  narrowness  Lippo's 
chosen  three  were  ranged,  with  Lippo  himself,  a  fine,  well- 
knit  figure  of  a  horseman,  strongly  mounted,  a  length  or 
two  in  advance.  Because  of  that  shrinking  modesty  which 
avoided  the  world's  gaze  his  wide-brimmed  cloth  bonnet 
was  drawn  forward,  an  added  shadow  to  the  shadow  of  the 
enclosing  trees. 

"Signor,  shall  I  charge  ?"  whispered  'Tonio  as  they  ad- 
vanced. 

"No;  wait.  Spur  when  I  cry,  now!"  and  nodding  as- 
sent 'Tonio  tightened  his  grip  on  the  cudgel  still  hidden 
by  the  cloak. 

As  the  two  drew  near  Lippo  motioned  to  his  cap  in 
mock  civility;  for  reasons  which  will  be  understood  he 
did  not  bare  his  head.  That  neither  surprise  nor  fear 
was  shown  perplexed  him;  then  it  broke  upon  him  that 
they  were  warned,  and  under  the  skin  of  courteous  pre- 
tence the  devil  in  him  stirred;  if  they  did  not  submit 


LIPPO  51 

quietly  to  their  shearing  they  should  pay,  they  or  another. 

"There  is  no  haste,  signers  both,"  he  said  cheerfully, 
slipping  his  sword  from  its  sheath  as  he  spoke  and  laying 
it  across  the  pommel  of  his  saddle  in  full  view  and  ready 
for  use.  "No  doubt  you  are  bound  for  Brettinoro  to  pass 
the  night?  You  know  our  Custom?  Supper,  a  night's 
lodging,  God  be  with  you,  and  nothing  to  pay!  Nothing 
to  pay!"  he  repeated,  "Have  you  ever  thought,  signers, 
what  a  fine  world  it  would  be  if  always  there  was  nothing 
to  pay?" 

"First  or  last,  all  must  be  paid,"  retorted  Fieravanti 
with  meaning. 

"True!"  Lippo  saw  his  way  to  a  quip  that  pleased  his 
grim  humour  and  so  spoke  yet  more  cheerily.  "First  or 
last?  Most  true,  signer,  most  true,  and  with  you  it  is 
first!  What?  Would  you  take  our  Brettinoro  hospital- 
ity and  leave  no  gift  for  the  poor?  Surely  not!  Come, 
signors,  be  generous!  Gold,  silver,  a  ring,  a  jewelled 
clasp,  what  you  will !  One  of  you,  there,"  and  he  jerked 
his  head  backward,  "You,  Giro,  dismount  and  receive  the 
Signors'  alms.  As  for  you,"  he  lent  forward  with  sudden 
truculence,  all  the  smooth,  ironical  mockery  roughened 
from  his  voice,  "let  there  be  neither  delay  nor  demur; 
hide  nothing — nothing,  or  by  all  the  devils  you'll  sorrow 
like  the  damned.  Search  well,  Giro." 

"Thieves?"  said  Fieravanti,  and  whispered,  "Be  ready 
'Tonio." 

"A  keen  wit!"  jeered  Lippo,  "Nearly  as  keen  as  this," 
and  he  tapped  the  naked  sword.  "Hasten,  Giro." 

But  as  Giro,  having  handed  his  reins  to  his  neighbour, 
advanced,  grinning,  across  the  intervening  space,  Anthony 
Hawk  flung  back  his  cloak  with  a  jerk  of  the  bridle  hand. 
The  one  gesture  freed  the  cudgel  and  roused  the  tired 
horse,  a  rasp  of  the  spurs  drove  him  forward,  a  sidelong 
sweep  of  the  staff,  partially  countered  by  an  upflung  arm, 


sent  Giro  staggering  and  in  the  same  instant  by  a  twitch 
on  the  bit  'Tonio  thrust  Lippo's  horse  into  the  ditch; 
ahead,  the  riderless  horse,  plunging  in  fright,  dragged  its 
keeper  aside — the  way  was  open ! 

"Now!  now!"  shouted  Hawk,  and  whirled  his  cudgel 
a  second  time. 

With  a  sounding  crack  it  landed  on  the  stretched  ribs 
of  the  fellow  straining  with  the  double  reins,  and  without 
so  much  as  drawing  steel  Fieravanti  was  racing  side  by 
side  with  his  scarpellino.  The  road  lay  clear  to  Bretti- 
noro ;  little  Gian  Vaga  might  have  stayed  at  home  herding 
villain  goats,  he  would  be  none  the  richer  for  his  long 
tramp  in  the  cold  dark  before  the  dawn.  Pursuit?  There 
was  none:  surprise  and  confusion  had  given  the  quarry 
too  long  a  lead,  and  the  cruel  devil  in  Lippo  the  brute 
raged  empty. 

Only  when  a  slow  hill  with  a  clear  backward  trail  of 
two  furlongs  length  had  been  topped  did  Fieravanti  halt: 
then,  leather  to  leather,  he  laid  a  hand  on  Hawk's  arm. 

"Who  gave  you  leave  to  take  command?"  he  said  jest- 
ingly, the  depth  in  his  voice  belieing  the  seeming  re- 
buke. "Lippo  would  have  killed  you  if  he  could." 

"What  matters?     You  would  have  broken  through." 

"And  left  you  to  die?  'Tonio,  'Tonio,  these  many 
months  we  have  been  comrades,  where  did  you  learn  that 
of  me?" 

For  a  moment  'Tonio  stared,  then  the  rushing  blood 
stained  his  fair  skin  from  neck  to  scalp.  "A  fool  of 
fools !  An  utter  fool !  an  idiot-brained  drivel  of  a  fool ! 
As  God  lives,  I  never  thought  of  that!" 

"No!"  and  the  Master's  grip  tightened.  "You  only 
thought  that  I  should  win  safe,  let  happen  what  might 
to  yourself.  I'll  remember  that  all  my  life  and  be  the 
better  man  for  the  memory.  For  a  righteous  man  some 
would  even  dare  to  die !  God  send  me  more  righteous  and 


LIPPO  53 

more  worthy — worthy  of  love  that  is  love  to  the  death, 
'Tonio,  my  friend/' 

"Oh,  Master,  it  would  have  been  easy,"  said  Hawk,  and 
there  being  no  clatter  of  pursuing  hoofs  behind  them 
they  pushed  slowly  on  their  way  in  silence. 

Fieravanti  was  deeply  moved.  There  is  always  a  some- 
thing inspiring  awe  in  the  revelation  of  a  great  passion: 
here  was  that  rarest,  perhaps  greatest,  and  certainly  finest 
of  all  passions,  a  man's  love  for  a  man  even  to  the  sacri- 
fice of  death.  That  a  man's  love  for  a  woman,  or  a 
woman's  for  a  man,  should  rise  to  such  desperate  heights 
is  not  strange.  In  both  there  is  the  mysterious  call  of 
nature  as  an  impelling  force,  and  in  the  man  that  natural 
chivalry  and  strength  protecting  weakness,  that  uncon- 
scious appeal  to  the  highest  in  our  nature.  But  that  a 
man  should  lay  bare  his  life  for  a  man,  and  that  not  even 
in  the  exaltation  of  hot  blood,  but  aforethought  and  by 
calculation,  is  rare.  Very  humbly  Fieravanti  asked  him- 
self wherein  lay  the  justification  for  so  great  a  sacrifice? 
He  found  no  answer.  It  is  the  recurrent  and  blessed  mys- 
tery of  daily  life  that  through  all  failure,  all  imperfec- 
tion, all  knowledge  of  our  own  unworthiness,  love  re- 
mains love. 


CHAPTEE  VI 

THE  CUSTOM  OF   BRETTINOBO 

DUSK  was  grey  in  the  deeper  ravines,  though  <the 
glamour  of  early  twilight  still  lay  mellow  on  the  hillside, 
as  they  caught  their  first  sight  of  Brettinoro,  a  sprawl  of 
low-roofed  houses  bordering  the  highway  on  both  sides, 
with  the  square  bell-tower  of  the  village  church  rising 
midway.  From  long  experience  Fieravanti  knew  what  to 
expect — the  doors  thrown  thriftily  wide  to  catch  the  last 
of  the  daylight,  a  charcoal  brazier  just  beyond  each  thres- 
hold, a  cooking  pot  steaming  on  the  live  coals  or  swung 
above  them  from  a  tripod,  and  everywhere  a  battle  of 
tongues,  broken  by  little  bursts  of  laughter  or  a  scolding 
voice,  and  the  wail  of  an  urchin  whose  ear  has  been 
cuffed  wisely  and  well. 

But  in  at  least  one  thing  Brettinoro  differed  from  all 
of  the  many  like  towns  scattered  through  Eomagua  and 
the  Marches — Brettinoro  alone  possessed  the  Custom  and 
the  Custom  was  a  never-failing  stimulant  to  curiosity.  At 
the  first  clang  of  the  horse  hoofs  on  the  cobbles  the  babble 
quieted,  as  a  stone  flung  into  an  ivied  wall  silences  the 
excited  chatter  of  homing  sparrows.  Into  every  open 
door  a  group  gathered,  those  behind  peering  over  the 
shoulders  of  those  in  front,  all  eager  to  know  the  luck 
of  the  travellers.  As  has  been  said,  the  poor  as  well  as 
the  rich  hung  their  knockers  on  the  pillar  of  the  Custom ; 
would  these  two  sup  rye  pottage  and  lie  on  straw,  or  sleep 
between  lawn  sheets  after  a  supper  which  might  content 
a  prince  ?  As  for  the  children,  with  an  eye  to  the  guide's 

54 


THE  CUSTOM  OF  BRETTINORO         55 

fee  they  were  already  flocking  to  the  market-place,  or 
hanging  in  twos  and  threes  beyond  the  flanks  of  the 
horses. 

Because  of  the  rarity  of  towns  in  that  wild  hill  country 
the  market  place  of  Brettinoro  was  larger  than  the  needs 
of  the  actual  inhabitants.  There,  on  certain  days,  flocked 
the  country  folk  by  the  hundred,  bringing  their  wares  for 
barter  rather  than  for  sale.  Therefore  there  were  many 
booths,  empty  now,  ranging  down  the  centre  and  along 
the  sides  of  the  four  square  open  space,  longer  than  it 
was  broad:  mere  roofs,  those  booths,  roofs  supported  by 
slender,  untrhnmed  pine-stems  cut  from  the  neighbouring 
woods. 

At  a  break  in  the  central  line  stood  a  watering-trough, 
and  beyond  the  trough  a  pillar  six  or  eight  feet  high. 
Here,  as  round  some  wandering  gio color e-policinello — that 
moet  immortal  of  plays,  not  yet  upon  the  stage — the 
children  were  gathered,  still  silent  except  for  whispered 
speculations.  Warned  by  Luca  Melone  what  to  expect, 
Fieravanti  drew  rein  in  front  of  the  trough  and  searched 
the  pillar  with  curious  eyes. 

It  was  a  flat  slab  of  polished  grey  marble  remarkable 
for  nothing  but  the  score  or  more  of  metal  rings  affixed 
in  rows  to  its  upper  face,  an  inch  or  two  of  space  separat- 
ing each  from  each  so  that  there  was  no  jostling,  no  con- 
fusion. If  difference  of  form  existed  it  was  too  slight  to 
attract  the  eye:  nowhere  was  there  heraldic  device,  in- 
dividuality or  advertisement  to  draw  attention,  certainly 
nothing  to  single  out  the  fourth  ring  from  the  left  in  the 
third  row  from  the  top. 

"Which?"  said  Fieravanti,  looking  round  the  circle  of 
expectant  faces,  all  keenly  alert  But  as  no  answer  came, 
not  even  so  much  as  a  significant  glance  shot  at  this  or 
that  ring  hung  from  the  grey  marble,  he  remembered  a 
chance  sentence  His  Grandeur  had  let  fall  and  decided  to 


56  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

put  its  truth  to  the  test.  Taking  a  silver  coin  between 
finger  and  thumb — silver  was  rare  in  Brettinoro,  gold 
almost  unknown — he  held  it  up  for  all  to  see.  "Come 
now;  you  know  the  rings  as  you  know  the  bottom  of  your 
pockets:  where  shall  I  sleep  softest?" 

Still  there  was  no  answer,  only  the  small,  expectant 
faces  grew  unnaturally  grave;  almost,  it  seemed  in  the 
failing  light,  as  if  that  premature  age  which  is  the  un- 
failing heritage  of  the  poor,  had  suddenly  fallen  upon 
them.  Then  one,  raggeder  than  the  rest  and  for  that 
reason,  perhaps  more  sorrowfully  wise  in  the  ways  of  a 
rough  world,  piped  out,  hardly  above  his  breath,  "We 
daren't,  signer,  they  would  burn  the  roof  over  our  head; 
not  for  our  lives,  we  daren't." 

From  where  he  sat,  stirrup-leather  to  stirrup-leather 
with  the  Master  while  their  beasts  drank  thirstily,  'Tonio 
laughed. 

"You  talk  like  parrots !  They'll  burn  the  roof,  say  you ; 
the  mother  with  the  children,  says — I  don't  know  his 
name.  Only,  with  him  it  is  Lippo,  and  with  you " 

"Silence,  'Tonio,"  Fieravanti  broke  in  sharply.  "You 
may  do  a  mischief  and  never  know  it.  So  we  must  choose 
for  ourselves  must  we?"  he  went  on,  slipping  the  coin 
back  to  his  pocket,  to  the  sore  disappointment  of  many 
longing  and  very  hungry  hearts.  "Well,  here's  for  it!" 
Eising  in  his  stirrups  he  let  his  hand  play  here  and  there 
across  the  face  of  the  marble  as  if  in  doubt,  then  suddenly 
seizing  the  ring  which  hung  fourth  from  the  left  in  the 
third  row  from  the  top  he  knocked  vigorously.  "Supper 
and  a  bed,  with  your  leave,  whoever  you  are !" 

Instantly  the  silence  broke  up  in  a  shout.  "Faldora ! — 
The  Count  Ascanio !  Signor,  signer,  choose  me ! — choose 
me!"  Bound  the  horses  they  surged  like  a  brood  of 
hungry  puppies  round  their  feeding-dish,  all  clamouring 
at  once  and  as  many  as  within  reach  plucking  at  Fiera- 


vanti's  cloak  to  call  attention.  "Me,  signer,  choose  me" — 
they  importuned — "Me — me — me." 

"Faldora?  Count  Ascanio  Faldora?"  said  Fleravanti, 
as  if  he  had  not  known  whose  door  would  open  to  the 
sound  of  that  knocking  on  the  flat  of  the  marble.  "Then 
we  are  in  luck,  are  we?  But  why  should  I  choose  one  of 
you  and  for  what?" 

"As  guide,  signer,"  they  shouted,  and  again  the  clamour 
rose,  "Me,  signor,  me — me — me!" 

"Of  course  we  shall  need  a  guide.  I  grow  stupid  in  my 
old  age."  Leisurely  he  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of 
the  upturned  eager  faces  until  his  gaze  crossed  that  of  the 
raggedest  of  them  all.  He  stood  on  the  outer  verge  of 
the  circle,  as  if  all  his  little  life  it  had  been  the  lot  of 
his  poverty  to  be  thrust  aside,  nor,  being  so  far  removed 
from  hope,  had  he  shouted  his  importunity.  Only  his 
eyes,  dark  and  wistful  in  the  hollowed  pallor  of  his 
pinched  face,  pled  the  cry  of  his  heart;  Fieravanti,  un- 
derstanding and  answering,  beckoned  him  above  the 
throng  of  upturned,  eager  faces.  "Come,  little  son,  I 
choose  you.  How  far  to  the  Casa  Faldora?" 

"Ten  minutes,  signor,"  a  dozen  voices  chorused,  but 
there  was  an  end  to  importunity.  Once  a  guide  was  chosen 
there  was  no  more  pestering;  that  was  the  unwritten  law 
of  the  Custom. 

"Ten  minutes?*'  The  circle  had  parted  and  the  chosen 
guide,  the  wan  pallor  of  his  pinched  face  chased  away 
by  the  fluttering  tumult  of  his  rejoicing  heart,  was  stand- 
ing by  Fieravanti's  knee.  Stooping,  the  maker  of  sainta 
caught  him  by  the  slack  of  his  patched  jerkin,  lifted  him 
to  the  front  of  his  saddle,  and  laid  an  arm  round  him  to 
hold  him  safe.  "It  grows  dark  and  we'll  travel  faster  so, 
though  Roland  has  not  often  carried  two  men  on  his 
back !  Which  way?  Across  the  market  and  up  the  street 
yonder?  Good!"  and  with  a  smiling  nod  to  those  left 


58  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

behind  Fieravanti  turned  his  horse  as  directed,  Hawk  fol- 
lowing. 

Not  until  clear  of  the  houses  and  breasting  an  in- 
creasingly steep  hill,  where  the  road  wound  upward 
through  an  unfenced  vineyard,  did  Fieravanti  speak  again, 
then: 

"What  name,  little  son?" 

"Piero,  signer." 

"And  no  other?" 

"Buti,  signor." 

"How  many  are  there  of  you  at  home?" 

"Three  more  and  the  mother,  signor." 

"No  father?" 

"No,  signor,  not  these  five  months,"  and  under  the 
firm  grip  of  the  securing  arm  Fieravanti  felt  the  thin 
ribs  convulse  as  a  sob  choked  in  the  throat. 

"And  so  times  are  hard  ?" 

"Now  and  then,  signor." 

"But  you  are  the  man  growing  up,  and  then  it  will  be 
all  right?" 

"Oh,  yes,  signor,  yes,"  and  with  the  choke  swallowed 
the  treble  rose  almost  in  a  lilt.  "It  will  be  all  right 
then." 

"But  I'll  wager  you  work  in  the  fields  now?" 

"Oh,  yes,  signor,  of  course;  but — but " 

"Yes,  I  know."  Over  the  patched  jerkin  the  sensitive 
fingertips  of  the  maker  of  saints  fumbled  gently.  The 
broken  sentence  had  no  need  of  completion.  "Skin  and 
bone  can  do  so  little!  If  only  the  soul  and  spirit  could 
work!  Then  all  would  be  right  even  now?" 

"Yes,  signor,"  he  answered,  not  in  the  least  under- 
standing. 

"And  for  whom  do  you  work,  my  brave  man-in-the- 
making  ?" 

"For  the  Count,  signor." 


THE  CUSTOM  OF  BRETTINORO         59 

"Falclora?  But  of  course  you  would!  Faldora  of 
Pesaro  owns  Brettinoro,  I  suppose?" 

"I  don't  know,  signer/' 

"Of  course  not ;  it  is  none  of  your  business !  And  what 
manner  of  man  is  Count  Ascanio?" 

"A  great  man,  signer,  the  very  greatest." 

"And  good  to  the  poor?" 

"Yes,  signer;  yes — when  he  thinks  of  them/'  There 
had  been  a  pause,  a  hesitancy,  now  it  ended  in  a  whole- 
hearted rush.  "The  signorina,  she  is  good." 

"She  thinks,  eh?" 

"Oh,  yes,  signor;  there  are  times  she  comes  herself/' 

"That  is  indeed  thought,"  said  Fieravanti  drily.  "And 
how  many  Faldoras  are  there?" 

"Two,  signor,  the  old  lord  and  the  signorina/' 

Then,  drawing  confidence  from  the  warm,  strong  arm 
lapped  round  him,  Piero  waxed  garrulous.  Here  was  a 
theme  he  loved.  Just  where  his  own  shrewd  observation 
ended, — and  the  observation  of  ten  years  old  with  ita  wits 
sharpened  upon  the  rough  grindstone  of  necessity  can  be 
disconcertingly  incisive  at  times, — and  the  gossip  of  hia 
elders  began  Fieravanti  could  not  decide  for  certain.  But 
this  much  was  clear,  to  the  child  the  old  lord  was  very 
old  and  very  great,  there  was  none  greater  than  Ascanio 
Faldora  in  all  that  hill  country.  Clearly,  too,  Faldora  of 
Pesaro  had  long  and  close  acquaintance  with  death  and 
porrow — acquaintance  even  beyond  that  which  is  the  sure 
heritage  of  age.  Time  had  dealt  hardly  with  his  House. 
War,  sickness  or  accident  had  stripped  the  old  stock  bare 
to  one  single  distaff  shoot,  that  Lucia  Faldora  whom  Luca 
Melone  had  thought  not  unlike  the  Magdalene  left  be- 
hind in  Forli.  At  that  point  the  maker  of  saints  cut 
short  Piero's  garrulity. 

"Arid  tluH-  l\vo  are  all?" 

"All  of  our  own,  signor."     On  the  instant  the  eager 


60  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

buoyancy  dulled  from  the  lad's  voice.  It  was  as  if  a  drift 
from  the  east  had  suddenly  chilled  the  warmth  of  a  May 
south-wind. 

"But  there  is  another?    What  is  he  called?" 

"Carlo  Faldora,  signor."  The  reluctance  to  speak  was 
yet  clearer. 

"Carlo  Faldora?  And  what  does  Brettinoro  say  of 
Carlo  Faldora?" 

"Oh,  signor,  how  should  I  know  anything  of  Signer 
Carlo?" 

"You?  Nothing!  But  you  have  ears  to  your  head; 
what  does  Brettinoro  say  ?" 

For  a  dozen  yards  the  tired  horse  plodded  up  hill 
through  silence,  then  the  pinched  face  was  half  turned 
back  and  upwards  as  the  small  voice  whispered,  "Do  not 
ask,  signor,  I  am  afraid."  But  almost  next  instant  Piero 
cried,  "The  Casa,  Signor,"  and  Fieravanti  knew  his  long 
day's  ride  was  at  an  end. 

And  a  worthy  end,  to  judge  by  the  mass  of  the  grey 
bulk  which  loomed  with  such  height  and  breadth  against 
the  thickening  dark  of  the  twilight.  Like  many  of  his 
temperament  before  him  and  many  who  were  to  follow, 
Leonardo  da  Vinci  and  Michael  Angelo  to  name  only  two 
of  the  greatest,  Fieravanti,  while  no  soldier,  was  deeply 
versed  in  the  sterner  art  of  military  defence.  Even  in  the 
dusk,  therefore,  a  single  glance  at  the  loop-holed,  crenel- 
lated walls  with  their  flanking  turrets,  made  clear  how 
strong  a  fortress  was  this  ancient  cradle  of  the  Faldor- 
eschi. 

"What  next?"  he  said,  drawing  rein. 

"I  knock,  and  when  the  door  is  opened  I  cry,  "The 
Custom  of  Brettinoro;  and — and — that  is  all,  signor." 
The  small  voice  quavered  as  Piero  ended;  after  all,  there 
might  be  no  guide's  fee. 

"Knock,   then,"   said   Fieravanti,   lifting   him   to   the 


THE  CUSTOM  OF  BRETTINORO         61 

ground.  But  while,  standing  a-tiptoe  to  reach  the  drag- 
on's head  hanging  from  the  oakem  door,  barred  and 
studded  with  iron,  Piero  roused  the  hollow  echoes,  the 
maker  of  saints  groped  in  that  purse  whose  emptying  was 
to  redound  to  the  greater  glory  of  God,  and  so,  the  gold 
ducat  hidden  between  finger  and  thumb,  waited  till  a 
bolt  slipped  smoothly  back  in  its  oiled  socket  and  the 
door  was  opened.  "The  Custom  of  Brettinoro"  piped 
Piero,  then,  leaning  down  Fieravanti  caught  him  by  the 
shoulder. 

"Double  that  in  thy  fist  and  run  home  to  the  mother  as 
fast  as  legs  will  carry  you,"  he  said,  and  turned  to  the 
open  door.  "The  Custom  of  Brettinoro?  Is  it  conven- 
ient ?"  while  Piero,  with  a  breathless  "Grazie,  signer/'  fled 
downhill  into  the  gloom,  his  fist  indeed  fast  doubled  and 
thrust  deep  into  the  pocket  of  his  ragged  breeches. 

What  his  prize  was  only  God  and  the  signer  knew  but 
it  felt  too  small  for  copper  and  the  mother  would  be  the 
next  to  know  when  he  laid  it  triumphantly  in  her  lap. 
Five  sols?  If  too  large  for  copper  the  feel  of  it  was  too 
small  for  five  sols  and  the  warm  exuberance  of  his  pride 
cooled.  Five  sols  would  be  a  god-send  after  the  pinching 
of  the  long,  hard  winter. 

"Convenient?"  With  the  lantern  carried  in  his  left 
hand  held  high  the  opener  of  the  door,  Tribalda,  Faldora's 
captain  of  the  guard,  surveyed  the  claimants  of  the  Cus- 
tom for  an  instant,  then  laughed  tolerantly.  "How  many 
are  there  of  you?  Two?  It  would  be  convenient  if  your 
two  were  fifty.  There  is  a  hook  there  on  the  right,  fasten 
your  horses  and  a  stableman  will  attend  to  them  presently. 
What  names  shall  I  send  to  Count  Ascanio?" 

Always  his  tone  was  courteous,  but  there  was  nothing 
warmer  in  his  welcome  than  convention  demanded.  Trav- 
elling merchants,  such  as  he  assumed  these  two  were, 
Tribalda  held  in  that  contempt  common  to  every  age 


62  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

which  fails  to  recognise  that  a  nation's  true  greatness 
springs  from,  and  is  founded  deeply  in,  its  commerce. 
It  was  even  doubtful  whether,  at  supper  presently,  they 
would  sit  above  the  salt.  There  was,  therefore,  the  civility 
necessary  to  any  guest  of  Ascanio  Faldora's,  however 
humble  the  station,  but  it  was  cold  civility  and  nothing 
more. 

"Our  names?  Marco  Fieravanti  and  Anthony  Hawk, 
both  of  Forli .» 

"Hawk?"  repeated  Tribalda  as  he  set  a  bell  clanging, 
"Not  of  our  nation,  I  think?" 

"English,"  answered  'Tonio  gruffly.  It  galled  him  that 
the  Master  should  be  so  coolly  received;  but  when  his  in- 
dignation would  have  cried,  "In  what  clod's  hole  of  the 
earth  have  you  lived  that  you  do  not  know  Marco  Fiera- 
vanti of  Forli — Marco  Fieravanti  of  all  Italy !"  the  Master 
silenced  him  by  a  pressure  on  the  arm. 

"English?"  said  Tribalda,  "And  a  trader  in  Forli?" 

"Trader?    Did  I  say  trader?    We  are " 

"Travellers,  and  claimants  of  a  Custom  not  of  our 
making,"  broke  in  Fieravanti,  and  with  that  the  sum- 
mons of  the  bell  was  doubly  answered. 

Through  the  dusk  an  out-door  helper  appeared  to  lead 
away  their  horses,  and  across  the  hall,  leisurely  as  became 
the  greatness  of  his  office,  a  dignity  approached  who  might 
have  been  mistaken  for  Ascanio  Faldora  himself,  but  for 
the  broad-linked  silver  chain  hanging  from  the  shoulders 
and  across  the  breast  of  his  severely  solemn  velvet:  also, 
he  neither  wore  sword  nor  carried  a  dagger  at  his  hip. 
To  him  Tribalda  turned. 

"Two  guests  of  the  Custom,  major-domo;  Anthony 
Hawk  of  England  and  Marco  Fieravanti  of  Forli." 

"Fieravanti  first,  by  your  leave,"  said  Hawk. 

"You  are  welcome,  signers  both,"  said  the  major-domo, 


THE  CUSTOM  OF  BRETTINORO         63 

but  without  enthusiasm.  In  his  heart  he  despised  the 
Custom.  That  Faldora  of  Pesaro  should  grant  hospitality 
at  his  pleasure,  and  of  a  style  in  keeping  with  the  an- 
cient dignity  of  the  great  House,  was  well,  but  that  any 
chance  passer-by  could  hammer  on  a  stone  pillar  and  de- 
mand that  hospitality  of  insolent  right  vexed  his  pride. 
Naturally,  the  Church,  whether  Cardinal-Archbishop  or 
barefooted  friar,  was  always  welcome,  or  Faldora's  peers 
if  any  such  there  were.  But  Fieravanti  ?  Hawk  ?  These 
were  none  of  the  great  names  of  Italy,  north  or  south, 
and  so  it  mattered  nothing  which  of  them  came  first. 
"Follow  me,  signers,"  he  went  on,  and  led  the  way  across 
the  great  hall. 

And  a  great  hall  it  was.  Never  had  Anthony  Hawk 
seen  its  like,  with  its  rows  of  lamps  flaring  from  iron 
cressets,  and  yet  of  such  a  vaulted  height  that  the  groined 
roof  overhung  him  dim  in  shadows.  Without  doubt  it 
had  been  an  audience  chamber  in  the  old  days  when 
Faldora  of  Pesaro  ruled  over  lands  as  broad  as  a  small 
kingdom,  ruled  with  a  heavy  or  a  light  hand  as  seemed 
good  to  him,  dispensing  high  and  low  justice  with  none 
to  question  his  authority. 

Yes,  certainly  an  audience  chamber.  In  front  of  the 
broad  stone  stairway  opening  upward  at  the  end  of  the 
hall  remote  from  the  door  a  dais  had  stood;  upon  the 
flagged  floor,  rush  strewn,  suitors  had  thronged;  over 
the  rail  of  the  wide  gallery,  thrust  out  from  the  rough 
courses  of  the  four  walls,  had  leaned  the  knights  and 
dames  of  Faldora's  petty  court.  But  all  that  had  passed. 
Now  this  later  Faldora  of  Pesaro  might  hold  Seigneurial 
state  within  these  walls,  but  time  and  the  growth  of  the 
Papal  power  had  clipped  his  authority;  the  dais  had  been 
swept  away,  the  galleries  rang  hollow  under  a  rare  foot- 
fall, and  where  Faldora's  subjects  had  pled  their  cause, 


64  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

or  shivered  before  the  merciless  sentence  of  their  doom, 
Faldora's  shrunken  guard  held  possession. 

But  if  the  greatness  of  power  had  passed,  something  of 
the  luxury  power  breeds  when  the  two  are  linked  through 
many  generations  remained.  The  carving  of  the  stone 
balusters  bordering  the  great  staircase  was  the  handiwork 
of  an  artist  almost  as  renowned  in  his  day  as  Marco 
Fieravanti  in  his,  their  rail  a  rounded  slab  of  white 
marble  cunningly  inlaid  with  verde-antico  and  lapis  lazuli 
after  the  fashion  of  Florentine  mosaic :  opposite,  upon  as- 
cending shelves  projecting  from  shallow  niches,  rested 
the  spoils  of  many  a  sacked  city — antique  busts  dating 
from  the  Caesars,  brasses,  bronzes,  Etruscan  urns,  fretted 
lamps  from  Umbria;  but  when  Fieravanti  would  have 
paused  the  major-domo  waved  him  impatiently  upward. 

"There  is  no  time,  signer,  no  time.  Already  supper 
may  be  delayed  and  my  lord  kept  waiting.  This  way  lies 
your  sleeping-room;  your  travelling-bags  will  follow  and 
I  beg  you  to  make  haste." 

Passing  down  a  corridor  at  the  stair-head  he  entered  a 
room  whose  furnishings,  sufficient  but  severely  plain,  were, 
he  considered,  appropriate  to  the  honest  obscurity  of 
these  guests  of  the  Custom.  Elsewhere  were  silken  hang- 
ings, mirrors  set  in  carved  and  gilded  frames,  glass  work 
of  Venice,  painted  ewers,  silver  lamps  swung  from  brack- 
et-arms of  delicate  hammered  work,  but  for  these  traders 
upon  the  hospitality  of  the  Custom  the  wooden  bench 
pushed  back  against  the  plastered  wall,  the  earthen  ewer 
and  pitcher,  the  clay  lamp — caught  up  at  hazard  from  the 
hall  below  and  the  wide  bed  filling  one  fourth  the  space 
were  luxury  enough.  Nor  could  it  have  entered  Fiera- 
vanti's  head  to  protest;  not  only  must  beggars  not  be 
choosers,  but  no  inn  of  Brettinoro,  had  it  possessed  one, 
could  have  offered  one  half  the  comfort. 


THE  CUSTOM  OF  BRETTINORO         65 

Clearly,  the  service  of  the  Casa  was  well  organised.  On 
their  heels  followed  a  lackey  with  their  saddle-bags,  and 
at  the  door  the  major-domo  paused  for  a  last  word. 

"You  know  the  custom  of  the  Custom?  No?  In  fif- 
teen minutes  my  lord  will  send  for  you;  then  supper." 


CHAPTER  VII 

FALDORA    OF    PESARO 

NOR  were  the  fifteen  minutes  too  few.  Men,  except 
the  very  great,  travelled  light,  nor,  at  times,  were  even 
the  very  great  fastidious.  Though  Fieravanti  carried  with 
him  sufficient  to  appear  with  dignity  and  self  respect  at 
the  Court  of  Arzano  he  contented  himself  now  with  re- 
moving the  soil  of  travel,  and  the  substitution  of  more 
suitable  foot  wear  for  his  heavy  riding-boots,  an  example 
which  Anthony  Hawk  followed. 

After  a  sharp  knock  the  door  was  flung  open  and  the 
servant  who  had  brought  their  saddle-bags  appeared.  He, 
too,  despised  the  Custom,  or,  rather,  after  the  manner  of 
his  type  in  all  ages,  such  of  its  guests  as  faced  the  world 
with  nothing  nobler  than  a  cudgel  to  maintain  their 
dignity. 

"You  were  in  luck,  down  there  in  the  village,"  he  said 
familiarly  as  he  lounged  against  the  door-post.  "Even 
below  the  salt  you  will  eat  and  drink  as  never  before  in 
your  lives." 

"God  be  praised  for  good  meat,"  answered  Fieravanti, 
smiling.  "Lead  on,  friend." 

"Oh,  there  is  no  such  haste.  What  is  your  trade  down 
in  Forli?" 

"I  chisel  stone." 

"A  stone-cutter?  And  you  come  knocking  at  our  door 
like  any  lord?  But  these  hands  of  yours " 

But  'Tonio  could  control  his  rage  no  longer.  Pushing 

66 


FALDORA  OF  PESARO  67 

forward  he  caught  the  fellow  by  the  shoulders,  whirled 
him  round  and  thrust  him  through  the  door  at  a  run. 

"Hands?  Since  you  know  so  much  of  hands,  what  am 
I,  with  hands  like  these?  Be  civil,  or  I'll  show  you  an 
English  custom  you'll  not  forget — to  fling  impertinence 
down  stairs !  Now  lead  on  as  you  were  bid." 

"Gently,  'Tonio,  gently/'  reproved  Fieravanti  but  with 
no  chiding  in  the  reproof.  "For  you,  good  fellow,  we  shall 
answer  your  questions  to  your  master  who,  no  doubt, 
bade  you  ask  them." 

"My  lord?"  If  there  had  been  fear  in  his  face  as 
'Tonio's  grip  closed  upon  him  there  was  terror  now. 
"No,  signor,  no,  no;  for  mercy's  sake  say  nothing  to 
my  lord.  He  would " 

"Say  that  a  guest  is  sacred,  let  his  station  be  what  it 
may?  I  can  well  believe  it!  For  this  time  you  are  safe; 
be  warned."  But  as  they  followed  him  along  the  way  they 
had  come  Fieravanti  linked  an  arm  in  Hawk's.  "Be 
warned  you  also.  Hold  your  temper  better  in  check  lest 
you  shame  us  both.  I  think  now  we  were  wrong  to  trade 
upon  this  Custom;  remember,  we  are  not  raised  to  the 
purple  like  Luca  Melone." 

"I  had  rather  be  Marco  Fieravanti  of  Forli  than  ten 
Luca  Melones,"  answered  "Tonic  sturdily. 

"What?  You  would  choose  the  chisel  and  white  smock 
rather  than  mitre  and  cassock?  You  northern  heathen! 
And  God  forbid  that  I  should  be  ten  men.  To  be  one 
man,  true  in  heart  and  soul  to  the  best  we  know  is  burden 
enough!  And  that  is  what  you  were  to-day.  But  keep 
your  hot  temper  for  the  Lippos  of  life;  never  waste  good 
red  blood  on  what  is  not  worth  the  rage." 

"All  the  same,"  said  Tonio,  "I  would  have  half  shaken 
the  life  out  of  him." 

"Yes,  and  sunk  yourself  to  his  level!  You  forget; 
passion  levels  down  as  well  as  up.  I  see  we  have  arrived. 


68  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

Be  warned,  JTonio.  Come  what  may  keep  a  fast  grip  on 
yourself." 

"Is  it  Faldora  you  fear?" 

But  Fieravanti  had  only  time  to  shake  his  head  as  the 
lackey,  passing  a  step  beyond  an  open  door,  turned,  and 
the  major-domo  slipped  forward  to  meet  them.  Faldora  ? 
No!  The  very  perfect  gentleman  of  Luca  Melone's  ad- 
miration could  be  trusted  to  show  guests  of  whatever 
quality  all  courtesy;  but  Faldora  was  not  alone  in  the 
Casa,  and  against  those  of  lesser  breed  Fieravanti's  warn- 
ing stood.  It  is  always  those  whose  nature  is  of  the 
lesser  breed  whose  courtesy  may  be  doubted. 

"This  way,  signors,"  said  the  major-domo  in  his  most 
sonorous  voice  and  yet  with  such  a  subtle  hint  of  con- 
descending tolerance  as  almost  to  suggest  a  command.  "It 
is  the  custom  of  my  lord  to  receive  the  guests  of  the  Cus- 
tom alone." 

But,  as  he  crossed  the  threshold,  Fieravanti  half  paused 
in  his  slow  stride.  "Poor  Ordelaffi!"  he  said  under  his 
breath  as  the  hard  and  flaunting  brilliancy,  the  voluptuous 
warmth  and  riot  of  colour  of  forty-eight  hours  past  leaped 
to  his  memory.  And  indeed,  the  Tyrant  of  Forli  might 
have  learned  much  of  the  grace  of  beautiful  living  from 
Faldora  of  Pesaro,  who,  however  he  had  fallen  from 
power,  still  held  fast  by  a  worthy  tradition.  Here  was 
no  shimmer  of  gaudy  silks,  no  scintillation  of  tinsel,  no 
extravagance  of  gilding,  no  flare  of  garish  lamps,  but 
just  such  a  harmony  of  restful,  quiet  beauty  as  the  soul 
of  the  great  Emperor  had  loved. 

Compared  with  the  length,  breadth  and  height  of 
Ordelaffi's  reception  hall  the  chamber  was  insignificant. 
But  true  significance  cannot  be  expressed  in  dimensions 
and  the  artist  in  Fieravanti  stirred,  exultantly  glad  within 
him,  at  sight  of  the  delicate-hued  tapestries,  the  carvings, 
bronzes,  castings,  the  Eastern  rugs  scattered  upon  the 


FALDORA  OF  PESARO  69 

mosaic  floor,  the  painted  ceiling,  the  shining  marble  ex- 
quisitely pure  in  the  mellow  light  of  wax  candles  held 
in  many-branched  silver  candle  sticks  severely  modelled. 

And  his  host?  As  Faldoras  of  old  had  stood  to  receive 
their  peers  so  now  Count  Ascanio  waited  to  welcome  the 
guests  brought  to  his  doors  by  the  chance  hazard  of  the 
Custom.  What  was  the  bishop's  phrase?  A  grand  seig- 
neur and  a  most  noble  gentleman?  To  Fieravanti,  a 
keener  judge  of  men  than  any  bishop  in  the  purple,  he 
looked  both  to  the  life !  Surely  no  description  could  better 
have  fitted  that  tall  erect  figure,  lean  without  meagreness 
and  straight  as  one  of  his  own  pines? 

For  all  his  age  few  would  have  called  Ascanio  Faldora 
old.  Neither  the  weight  of  years  nor  the  burden  of  sor- 
row had  rounded  his  shoulders  or  bent  his  back ;  if  the  an- 
cient fire  had  dulled  in  the  dark  eyes,  half  hidden  by  the 
caverned  brows,  it  still  smouldered  beneath  the  bitter 
ashes  of  the  years,  and  could  rouse  at  times  with  all  its 
flashing  lightning.  Close  clipped  white  hair  hid  the  thin 
lips,  but  the  snow  concealed  no  trembling  of  the  mouth. 
From  the  broad  forehead,  furrowed  and  cobwebbed  as 
much  by  thought  and  the  facing  of  the  wind  in  open 
spaces  as  by  Time,  the  short,  crisp,  iron-grey  hair,  still 
thick  and  strong  of  growth,  was  brushed  severely  back. 
For  the  rest,  his  dress  of  fine  purple  cloth  matched  the 
man.  Plain  to  austerity,  and  unrelieved  except  for  the 
lawn  showing  at  wrists  and  throat,  it  suggested  afresh  His 
Grandeur's  descriptive  sentence ;  if  the  jewel  of  a  knightly 
Order  hung  upon  his  breast  it  was  less  in  his  own  honour 
than  that  Faldora  of  Pesaro  might  do  honour  to  his 
guests. 

Having  led  the  way  into  the  reception  chamber  the 
major-domo  stood  aside  in  silence;  as  it  was  Count  As- 
canio's  whim  to  receive  the  guests  of  the  Custom  alone 
so  also  he  chose  to  welcome  them  without  formality.  Ad-. 


70  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

vancing  a  step  or  two  he  held  out  his  hand  to  the  sculptor, 
a  long,  lean,  sinewy  hand  browned  by  sun  and  wind,  the 
hand  of  manhood  in  its  full  strength  rather  than  of  age, 
nor  was  the  ancient  characteristic  vigour  of  the  grasp 
abated;  whether  to  welcome  a  friend  or  strike  an  enemy 
Faldora's  hand  still  answered  Faldora's  heart  as  readily 
as  in  the  days  of  his  youth.  Now  with  grasp  answering 
grasp  that  sudden  flame  leaped  to  the  caverned  eyes  as 
the  stern  face  softened  in  a  smile:  all  his  life  long  he 
had  loved  that  rare  manhood  which  is  of  the  soul  and 
spirit  rather  than  of  the  flesh. 

"Messer  Fieravanti  of  Forli"  he  said  questioningly. 
Tfcen  with  their  clasp  still  knit  he  laid  an  impulsive  hand 
on  the  sculptor's  shoulder.  "Not  Marco  Fieravanti.  But 
it  could  be  no  other !  The  greatness  fits  the  man  and  the 
man  the  greatness.  Ser  Marco,  you  are  very  welcome  to 
Faldora.  And  who  is  this  that  is  with  you?" 

"Anthony  Hawk,  a  pupil  who  may  one  day  teach  the 
Master." 

"Do  you  agree?"  and  Faldora  held  out  his  hand  to  the 
Englishman. 

"No,  signor,  not  being  altogether  a  fool,"  answered 
Hawk  bluntly. 

"For  that  answer  I  have  hope  of  you!"  Beyond  his 
guests  he  looked  towards  the  major-domo,  still  in  waiting 
by  the  entrance.  "Giuseppe,  warn  the  signorina  and  Ser 
Carlo.  Are  you  from  Forli,  Messer  Fieravanti?"  he  went 
on  as,  muttering  to  himself,  "He  took  both  by  the  hand, 
so  both  must  go  above  the  salt,"  Giuseppe  closed  the  door 
behind  him. 

"From  Forli  to  Arzano." 

"Arzano?"  The  courteous  voice  sharpened  as  those 
ancient  fires  which  Luca  Melone  had  noted  flashed  an 
instant.  "Mars ;  not  Venus  nor  the  service  of  the  Church 
takes  you  to  Arzano,  I  think?" 


FALDORA  OF  PESARO  71 

Fieravanti  laughed.  "If  that  be  so,  Illustrissimo,  then 
you  know  more  than  I." 

"I  know  Arzano  has  more  need  of  soldiers  than  statues 
of  saints,  of  fortifications  than  furnishing  to  ife  churches." 

"So  much  the  better!  The  making  of  saints  must  be 
done  upon  the  spot  and  is  the  work  of  months,  but  for 
walls  and  bastions,  scarps,  counterscarps  and  palisades  a 
plan  is  sufficient.  I  shall  be  back  in  Forli  the  sooner. 
Where  my  trade  is  there  I  must  be." 

"Trade,  do  you  call  it?" 

"What  else?  What  is  trade  but  to  sell  or  barter  this 
or  that?  The  mercer  his  yards  of  silk,  I  my  skill,  the 
soldier  his  sword." 

"The  soldier?"  Faldora  stiffened  his  lean  straightness 
yet  more  rigidly  upright  as  the  pride  hinted  by  Luca 
Melone  lifted  its  head.  "I  have  fought  through  more 
years  than  you  have  lived,  Signor  Fieravanti,  and  never 
yet  sold  my  sword." 

"Oh,  I  grant  you  the  pay  is  not  always  the  same;  to 
this  one  a  full  pocket,  to  that  one  lands,  to  some  the 
pure  zest  and  joy  of  righting:  with  you,  Illustrissimo, 
honour  and  your  nation's  life.  But  sale  or  barter  it  is, 
and  so  a  trade." 

"For  yourself,  you  know  best."  Vexed,  Faldora  turned 
to  'Tonio,  "and  you,  do  you  also  call  your  art  a  trade?" 

"Signor,  a  man  must  live,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
thing  by  which  a  man  lives " 

Waiting  for  no  end  to  the  sentence  Faldora  swung 
round  on  the  sculptor.  "And  I,  do  I  live  by  my  sword?" 

"For  your  honour,  and  the  honour  of  your  name,  which 
you  have  maintained  by  your  sword,  if  it  were  lost " 

"Life,  too,  might  go.  Ser  Fieravanti  you  mesh  me  in 
your  net  of  words,  but  never  before,  in  his  own  house  or 
out  of  it  has  a  Faldora  of  Pesaro  been  likened  to  a  Jew 
huckster." 


72  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

"Signer — Count  Ascanio — have  I  offended?  You 
shame  me.  Nothing  was  further  from  my  thought,  noth- 
ing would  pain " 

"Enough,  enough.  Offended?  No.  Our  worlds  are 
poles  apart,  that  is  all.  Lucia/'  looking  beyond  the  sculp- 
tor he  raised  a  beckoning  hand,  "I  present  to  you  two 
guests  of  the  Custom:  Marco  Fieravanti  of  Forli  you 
know  by  repute." 

Engrossed,  the  maker  of  saints  had  not  heard  the 
opening  of  the  door,  now  he  turned  hastily.  What  was 
it  Luca  Melone  had  said?  As  beautiful  as  your  Magdalene 
and  not  unlike?  But  that  was  flattery — flattery  of  the 
marble.  And  yet  the  marble  had  beauty:  honest  to  him- 
self in  praise  as  well  as  censure  Fieravanti  knew  and  loved 
the  loveliness  of  the  sorrowful,  cold  stone,  as  every  artist 
loves  the  handiwork  which  realises  the  conception  of  his 
thought;  but  here — or  was  that  the  difference  hinted  by 
His  Grandeur  ?  At  its  best  the  Magdalene  was  sorrowful, 
cold  and  a  stone,  while  here 

Fieravanti's  swift  train  of  thought  snapped,  crumbling 
in  upon  itself  at  a  second,  surer  scrutiny.  The  difference  ? 
Were  these  not,  rather,  the  likeness,  leaving  the  difference 
to  be  sought  elsewhere?  Sorrowful?  Upon  the  heels  of 
the  flashed  question  the  answer  flashed.  What  is  life, 
much  of  it,  but  the  wearing  of  a  mask?  But  because  his 
trade  was  what  it  was,  and  because  a  true  Maker  of  Saints 
looks  deeper  than  the  flesh,  since  it  is  not  always  the  saint 
who  seems  saintly,  Fieravanti  caught,  or  thought  he 
caught,  a  shadow  behind  the  masking  smile,  a  cloud  with 
sorrow  in  its  heart  as  a  summer  cloud  hides  rain;  not 
the  sorrow  of  the  Magdalene  with  its  agonised  heart  of 
bitter  repentance,  that  was  impossible  for  a  Lucia  Faldora, 
but  a  troubled  fret,  a  cark  that  gnawed,  a  care  that 
brooded,  a — yes,  a  sorrow. 


FALDORA  OF  PESARO  73 

And  cold?  A  stone?  There  also  Luca  Melone  had 
surely  put  that  shrewd  finger  of  the  Church's  knowledge 
of  women  on  a  truth.  Cold?  Even  while  they  smiled 
the  very  perfect  lips  were  coldly  set,  the  clear  dark  eyes 
cold  and  indifferent;  and  when  she  spoke  the  full,  rich 
voice  was  cold  for  all  its  pleasant  sweetness.  Why? 
Again  upon  the  heels  of  the  questioning  thought  the 
answer  flashed — <the  Faldora  pride?  In  Count  Ascanio, 
His  Grandeur  had  said,  it  was  the  weakness  of  a  splendid 
nature ;  a  fiery  weakness  as  Fieravanti  had  just  proved :  in 
Lucia  Faldora  might  it  not  be  that  less  worthy  pride 
which  is  own  father  to  cold  scorn  for  what  it  holds  in 
traditional  contempt,  such  as,  for  instance,  guests  of  the 
Custom  who  were  not  of  her  breed  or  nurture  ?  Perhaps ; 
at  least  so  he  read  her  in  that  first  searching  scrutiny. 

For  the  rest,  she  was  tall,  as  became  her  race,  and  a 
very  perfect  woman  so  far  as  God's  making  shaped  her, 
very  perfect  from  the  crowning  of  the  dark  hair,  looped 
in  ample  braids  about  the  shapely  head,  down  by  gracious 
lines  and  curves  of  beauty  to  the  arched  foot  thrust  out 
below  the  hem  of  the  silken  skirt  whose  grey  folds,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  time,  swept  the  floor  behind  her.  Yes, 
very  perfect,  but,  judged  by  that  sorrow,  that  coldness  and 
unconscious  scorn,  no  saint  or  saint  in  the  making — as 
yet! 

''Marco  Fieravanti  of  Forli?"  The  unwann  smile,  it 
was  negative  rather  than  cold,  died  from  her  face.  "But 
Tribalda  said  they  were  travelling  merchants " 

"Traders,"  interrupted  Faldora  with  sour  humour. 
"His  own  word,  Lucia:  traders — traders." 

"We  have  differed,  the  Count  and  I,"  said  Fieravanti, 
"I  am  of  the  people  and  speak  as  the  people " 

"Differed?  Oh,  by  my  faith,  no!"  Again  Faldora 
broke  in,  his  vexed  temper  still  on  edge.  "It  is  just  that 


74  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

you  know  your  own  affairs  and  place  in  the  world  and  I 
know  mine." 

"As  all  Eomagna  knows  and  honours  it,"  said  Fiera- 
vanti.  "God  send  Italy  many  Ascanio  Faldoras,  said  His 
Grandeur  to  me  in  Forli  not  three  days  ago." 

But  the  quotation  was  unfortunate.  "Many  Ascanio 
Faldoras?  Perhaps,  yes,  perhaps.  But  God  must  first 
send  children,  and  here  we  are  with  Lent  at  our  doors. 
I  am  the  last  of  my  hlood,  Ser  Marco!  May  He  spare 
me  life  to  hear  small  feet  of  my  name  patter  on.  the  empty 
stairs !" 

"His  Grandeur?"  The  girl's  voice  was  as  cold  as  the 
unwarm  smile  to  welcome  travelling  merchants  had  been. 
As  cold?  Colder?  Freezingly  chilly !  The  blunt  reference 
to  empty  stairs  and  what  might  set  their  echoes  flying  had 
stirred  distaste.  "You  saw  His  Grandeur  three  days  ago  ? 
We  loved  him  for  his  gentleness." 

"Shall  I  let  you  into  a  secret,  signorina?"  With  the 
set  purpose  of  relieving  the  distaste  Fieravanti  laughed  as 
he  grew  confidential.  "And  if  I  do,  will  they  burn  the 
roof  over  His  Grandeur's  head !" 

"They?    Who  are  they?" 

"The  Keepers  of  the  Custom!  Illustrissimo,  I  have  a 
confession  to  make.  It  was  by  no  hazard  of  chance  that 
I  knocked  on  Brettinoro's  pillar  to-night  with  the  fourth 
ring  in  the  third  row  from  the  top." 

"Ah,"  said  Faldora  stiffly,  "the  good  bishop  was  pleased 
to  be  pleased  with  our  poor  entertainment." 

Fieravanti  answered  the  offence  rather  than  the  words, 
"I  think  His  Grandeur  cares  little  whether  he  sups  with 
Faldora  of  Pesaro  or  upon  rye  pottage,  and  I  care  as  little 
with  him." 

"Then  why " 

"Does  it  matter?"     This  time  it  was  the  girl  who  in- 


FALDORA  OF  PESARO  75 

terrupted,  formally  courteous,  but  with  the  vexed  dis- 
taste unabated.  "But  for  him  Signor  Fieravanti  would 
not  have  knocked  at  our  door:  every  way  we  are  in  His 
Grandeur's  debt."  And  with  that  the  major-domo  flung 
the  door  wide. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

FIEEAVANTI   FACES   A  PROBLEM 

i 

THE  procession  to  the  supper-room  was  one  of  rigid 
ceremony,  never  abated,  never  extended,  let  there  be  guests 
or  no  guests.  First  walked  two  lackeys  bearing  candles 
set  in  tall  silver  candlesticks  severely  plain.  Clearly,  these 
were  borne  for  dignity,  not  for  light,  since  the  passage 
was  in  a  blaze  and  the  draught  bred  by  the  slow  march 
guttered  their  flames  to  blue  points :  then  came  Giuseppe, 
the  major-domo,  with  a  five-foot  wand  of  office  whose 
end  he  clicked  upon  the  marble  floor  at  every  second 
step :  Faldora  followed  alone.  No  doubt  Luca  Melone  had 
walked  by  his  side,  because  of  his  purple,  but  not  a  man 
whose  trade  it  was  to  chisel  stone.  Next  were  Fieravanti 
and  the  girl,  behind  them  'Tonio  side  by  side  with  Tri- 
balda,  who  had  slipped  into  place  from  the  mouth  of  a  side 
passage;  closing  the  rear  came  two  more  lackeys  also  bear- 
ing candles.  At  the  door  of  the  supper-room  the  leading 
candle-bearers  stepped  each  to  one  side  and  the  small  pro- 
cession passed  on  between. 

The  household,  and  there  were  many,  two  score  at  the. 
fewest,  had  already  assembled  below  the  salt;  two  clerics, 
Faldora's  domestic  chaplains,  occupied  places  one  on  either 
side  of  the  upper  table :  all  were  standing.  Drawing  back 
the  carved  armchair  set  at  the  table-head  the  major-domo 
waited  in  readiness  to  push  it  into  place  as  his  master 
seated  himself. 

"Lucia,  your  place  as  usual  on  my  right ;  Ser  Fieravanti, 

76 


FIERAVANTI  FACES  A  PROBLEM       77 

here  on  my  left,  next  you  your — your  friend  and  pupil: 
Keverend  Fathers — Tribalda " 

A  wave  of  the  hand  indicated  that  they  knew  their  ac- 
customed seats,  hut  between  Lucia  Faldora  and  the  elder 
priest  a  vacant  place  was  reserved.  While  all  were  yet 
upon  their  feet  Faldora  bowed  gravely  to  right  and  left 
below  the  salt  and  was  answered  by  a  yet  deeper  rever- 
ence. 

"Father,  a  grace."  But  once  seated  he  turned  to  Fiera- 
vanti.  "Arzano,  you  said?  You  know  the  city?  No? 
Then  I  am  at  an  advantage.  It  was — let  me  see!"  He 
paused,  fingering  thoughtfully  the  stem  of  the  glass  Gius- 
eppe had  filled  with  the  red  wine  of  his  own  vineyards 
here  at  Brettinoro.  "Yes,  it  is  just  twenty-nine  years 
past  since  we  sacked  Arzano,  the  Duke  of  Urbino  and  I. 
Now  Arzano  is  my  very  good  friend  and  if  you  are  wise — 
knowledge  grows  through  success  as  well  as  through  fail- 
ure, Ser  Marco,  though  failure  is  the  surer  teacher — if 
you  are  wise,  I  say,  you  will  advise  Arzano " 

Forthwith  he  plunged  into  an  ordered  jargon  of  scarp 
and  counterscarp,  banquette,  terreplein,  fraise,  abatis,  ab- 
struse talk  which  none  but  Fieravanti  could  fully  compre- 
hend or  follow,  but  all  with  that  clarity,  that  sureness  of 
detail,  that  shrewdness  of  criticism  and  nicety  of  appor- 
tioned value  which  speak  the  trained  experience  undulled 
by  time  or  failing  memory.  Tribalda,  a  good  soldier  but 
without  the  experience,  was  engrossed,  listening:  the  re- 
maining four  rarely  spoke,  though  once  the  younger  priest, 
after  a  whisper  from  'Tonio,  leaned  across  to  the  elder, 
saying  softly,  "Fieravanti — Fieravanti,  the  sculptor  of 
Forli.  You  have  seen  the  Sant'  Agnese?  Oh,  beautiful!" 
Whereat  the  elder,  his  eyes  alert  and  bright,  nodded  back. 
Certainly  he  knew  the  Saint  Agnese.  At  the  lower  table 
the  murmuring  talk  was  continuous  but  no  distinct  word 
rose  above  the  subdued  level  of  careful  respect. 


78  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

It  was  while  Faldora  was  emphasising  with  outstretched 
forefinger  some  point  in  his  theory  of  Arzano's  defences 
that  the  door  behind  Fieravanti  clicked  open  and  shut, 
and  a  gay  voice  broke  in  upon  the  demonstration. 

"Mea  maxima  culpa!  But  Uncle,  and  you,  my  cousin, 
if  I  have  lost  half  my  supper  I  am  surely  punished 
enough  ?" 

Pausing  with  extended  finger  Faldora  glanced  up,  vexed 
at  the  interruption.  "There  are  guests,  Carlo.-  Signer 
Fieravanti,  I  present  to  you  my  nephew,  Carlo  Faldora," 
and  rising  Fieravanti  faced  the  gamester  convicted  forty- 
eight  hours  before  of  cheating  with  cogged  dice;  that  he 
was  also  the  bully  of  the  previous  morning  he  forgot  for 
the  moment. 

On  Carlo  Faldora's  part  there  was  no  recognition.  Fier- 
avanti? Who  or  what  was  Fieravanti?  If  he  had  heard 
the  name,  as  no  doubt  he  had,  it  had  been  forgotten;  for 
him  the  making  of  saints  had  no  interest.  With  a  care- 
less bow  and  cursing  in  his  heart  this  Custom  which  willy 
nilly  thrust  such  cattle  upon  their  privacy  he  passed 
round  behind  his  Uncle's  chair  and  took  the  vacant  place 
beside  the  girl.  Glancing  across  the  table  his  indifferent, 
half  insolent  gaze  met  that  of  Anthony  Hawk,  by  no  means 
indifferent.  On  the  moment  antagonism  was  born,  so  vital 
and  robust  on  'Tonio's  part  that,  but  for  the  master's  warn- 
ing as  they  descended  the  stairs,  his  vexed  memory  of  the 
insolence  upon  the  road  might  have  flamed  out  as  once 
already  wrath  had  flamed  that  night.  So,  for  a  long 
breath,  sword  and  cudgel  met,  and  again  the  cudgel  gained 
the  day.  With  a  shrug  and  a  lifting  of  the  brows  Faldora 
turned  to  his  cousin,  but  with  Count  Ascanio  just  beyond 
her  across  the  angle  of  the  table  no  impertinent  jest  at 
'Tonio's  expense  was  possible. 

Some  men  and  many  women  have  the  double  faculty 
of  watchful  observance,  while  listening  with  comprehend- 


FIERAVANTI  FACES  A  PROBLEM       79 

ing  intelligence.  In  the  woman  it  is  one  of  those  gifts 
of  quicker  wit  which  go  far  to  compensate  for  physical 
weakness:  with  Fieravanti  the  power  had  developed 
through  the  dual  working  of  the  mind  directing  the  deli- 
cate handling  of  his  tools  even  while  he  talked  on  other 
matters  with  his  scarpellini.  To  the  cheating  gamester, 
the  cogger  of  dice,  he  gave  no  second  thought:  to  de- 
nounce the  cheat  was  not  the  duty  of  a  passing  guest :  but 
losing  no  word  of  Count  Ascanio's  elaborate  demonstra- 
tion, his  speculation  pondered  Luca  Melone's  unspoken 
dissatisfaction  with  the  Magdalene  and  its  association  with 
the  girl  facing  him.  That  there  was  an  association  he 
had  no  doubt,  else  would  His  Grandeur  not  have  been  at 
once  so  mysterious  and  so  insistent. 

But  the  passionless,  unresponsive  indifference  taught 
him  nothing.  Upon  this  far-off  cousin,  whose  manner  and 
air  were  more  than  cousinly,  she  smiled  with  no  greater 
warmth  than  on  the  travelling  merchants  thrust  upon  the 
Casa's  hospitality  by  the  Custom;  almost,  Fieravanti 
thought,  there  was  the  same  distaste  as  had  countered 
Faldora's  blunt  regret  at  the  silence  of  his  empty  stairs. 
What  were  the  words?  "Small  feet  of  my  name?"  Of 
my  name !  Not  simply  small  feet,  but  children  who  would 
be  Faldoras  to  follow  a  Faldora ! 

On  the  instant  Fieravanti  understood  and  his  heart 
checked  a  beat  as  he  remembered  Ordelaffi's  flaring  lights, 
and  saw  again  the  fierce  passion  of  the  cheating  dicer  as 
he  shook  a  defiant  hand  from  the  door  before  it  closed 
behind  his  dishonour.  In  the  same  instant,  too,  he  knew 
hi  in. -'If  in  the  pinch  of  a  cleft  stick.  Unconsciously  Luca 
Melone  had  thrust  him  into  a  position  of  almost  intolerable 
difficulty.  Which  way  lay  that  paramount  duty  from 
whose  fulfilment  a  man  may  not  shrink?  Should  he  speak 
or  should  he  forbear?  Should  he  enlighten  this  Grand 
Seigneur  and  very  noble-hearted  gentleman  whose  difl- 


80  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

course  upon  Arzano  and  Arzano's  defences  was  beating 
upon  his  brain  with  the  hurtful  racking  of  some  stridency 
which  mauls  raw  nerves  to  the  limit  of  endurance,  or 
should  he  hold  his  peace,  and  pass  out  of  their  lives  with 
the  morning,  according  to  the  custom  of  the  Custom?  If 
he  spoke 

"You,  Ser  Marco,  who  are  so  deeply  versed  in  the  science 
of  fortification,  will  understand  that  in  the  case  of  a  city 
perched,  as  Arzano  is,  upon  a  hill-top  which  slopes  in  all 
directions  it  is  most  desirable  that  the  ditch  beyond  the 
outer  wall " 

The  full,  strong  voice,  firm  and  clear  as  in  the  days  of 
hot  youth,  held  upon  its  serene  way  as  undreaming  of  the 
conflict  in  the  brain  of  the  listener  as  of  the  ruin  which 
hung,  imminent,  above  the  future  of  his  House.  What  if 
he  spoke,  Fieravanti  asked  himself,  what  if  he  said,  Ask 
Girolamo  OrdelarTi  who  was  that  cogger  of  dice  flung  out 
of  the  Castello  two  nights  ago,  disgraced  and  a  cheat? 
Would  the  children  whose  small  feet  were  to  make  glad 
the  echoes  of  the  silent  stairs  be  small  feet  of  the  ancient 
name  at  all;  or  would  Carlo  Faldora,  last  of  his  race 
though  he  was  and  sole  channel  by  which  that  honoured 
name  could  be  handed  down  the  ages,  be  thrust  from  the 
doors  as  Ordelaffi  had  thrust  him?  It  was  a  foolish  ques- 
tion. Count  Ascanio  had  himself  answered  it  within  the 
past  half  hour — if  his  honour  was  lost,  or  the  honour  of 
his  name,  life,  too,  might  go  with  the  losing.  Better  an 
end  to  Faldora  than  hand  down  the  ancient  name  through 
tainted  blood.  Well,  then,  should  he  speak? 

Before  he  answered  the  question  there  was  another  be- 
sides Count  Ascanio  to  be  considered :  what  would  such  a 
woman  as  Lucia  Faldora  say  to  the  cheating  dicer  ?  That 
depended  on  whether  she  loved  him  and  how.  God  be 
thanked,  good  women  have  an  infinity  of  forgiveness — 
some  of  them.  Was  Lucia  Faldora  one  of  such?  A 


FIERAVANTI  FACES  A  PROBLEM       81 

womanly  woman?  Yes!  Wipe  the  pride  from  the  cold 
face,  warm  that  coldness,  stir  to  active  life  the  soul  in  the 
stone  and  find — What?  A  Saint?  Yes  and  No!  Not  a 
saint  as  yet  but  a  saint  in  the  germ.  It  was  one  of  Fiera- 
vanti's  beliefs  that  every  woman  is  a  saint  in  the  germ: 
not  in  saintly  meekness,  perhaps,  but  a  possible  and  greater 
saint  in  ungrudging  and  devoted  self-sacrifice:  not  a  pa- 
tient Griselda,  not  a  Sant'  Agnese,  but  an  Elizabeth  of 
Hungary  or  a  Santa  Maura.  Such  an  one  Lucia  Faldora 
might  surely  prove :  had  not  Piero  Buti  said  she  was  good 
to  the  poor? 

And  what  would  the  love  of  a  strong-natured,  deep- 
hearted  woman  say  to  the  cheat  who  pled  an  answering 
love  as  deep-hearted  as  her  own?  Would  she  not  say, 
Love  is  of  God,  love  is  His  divine  gift,  love  is  His  clearest 
and  surest  revelation  of  Himself.  So  realising,  so  believ- 
ing, would  she  not  face  the  world  at  the  cheat's  side,  her 
hand  in  his,  let  scorn  who  might,  and  by  her  love  win 
him  back  to  honour?  A  miracle,  that,  surely?  Yes,  but 
is  it  not  within  the  power  of  love  to  work  miracles  pro- 
vided  

"Your  close  attention  one  moment,  Signor  Fieravanti." 
There  was  a  hint  of  offence  in  Faldora's  voice  and  Fiera- 
vanti woke  to  the  knowledge  that  his  dual  faculty  had 
failed  him:  absorbed  in  his  most  urgent  problem  it  had 
not  served  its  two  masters  equally  well.  "The  true  heart 
of  such  a  town  as  Arzano  is  its  citadel :  it  is  like  a  man's 
honour:  so  long  as  that  holds  fast  there  is  safety,  let 
threaten  what  will,  lose  it  and  all  is  lost.  Therefore — — " 

But  Fieravanti  had  recovered  grip  of  himself.  His  eyes 
negligently  across  the  table  like  those  of  a  man  whose 
thought  is  far  off — in  Arzano,  for  instance,  mapping  out 
that  citadel  which  should  be  to  the  safety  of  the  Duke 
what  his  honour  was  to  his  reputation — he  searched  Carlo 
Faldora's  face  line  by  line  while,  stooping  towards  hia 


82  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

host,  he  proved  his  close  attention  by  a  nodded  assent,  a 
dropped  phrase,  a  little  endorsing  gesture  of  the  hand. 
For  there,  in  Carlo  Faldora's  face,  he  must  find  the 
answer  to  his  question,  would  such  a  woman  love  such  a 
man  well  enough  to  count  the  world  well  lost  for  his 
sake? 

And  the  face?  Setting  his  prejudice  aside  Fieravanti 
told  himself  that  it  was  a  comely  face — more,  a  hand- 
some face,  gay  and  smiling,  as  debonair  as  if  there  were 
no  such  things  as  cogged  dice  lying  broken  in  Forli,  and 
the  honour  of  a  man  and  the  fame  of  an  ancient  name 
broken  with  them.  But  was  it  a  face  that  might  catch 
and  hold  a  woman's  love,  the  love  of  a  good  woman,  that 
is?  Yes,  perhaps,  since  good  women  do  not  always  see 
deeper  than  the  skin,  or  there  would  be  fewer  sore  hearts 
in  the  world.  Carlo  Faldora's  comeliness  was  certainly 
skin  deep.  And  deeper?  What  lay  beyond  the  padding 
of  the  comely  flesh?  Fieravanti's  brows  narrowed  to  a 
frown.  Self,  the  thing  he  is,  writes  its  story  on  every 
man's  face  though  not  all  can  read  it.  Would  she  see, 
as  he  saw,  the  cruel  hardness  of  the  now  laughing  mouth, 
the  arrogant  obstinacy  of  the  squared  chin,  the  calculating 
coldness  lying  behind  the  gay  smile  of  the  supercilious 
eyes?  Would  she  read  and  understand  the  story  of  the 
lines,  faint  as  yet  but  deepening  without  a  doubt,  which 
the  evil  beloved  of  Carlo  Faldora's  soul  was  tracing  upon 
forehead  and  temple?  Would  she  recognise 

Suddenly  Fieravanti  brushed  all  such  closeness  of  an- 
alysis aside;  it  counted  for  nothing  in  a  discovery  he  had 
made.  Clearly  Carlo  Faldora,  let  him  pay  court  as  he 
might,  had  no  love  for  his  cousin :  love  for  what  she  would 
bring  him,  perhaps,  love  for  the  full  purse  which  would 
make  cogged  dice  needless  and  a  folly,  but  no  love  which 
set  her  apart  as  the  one  dear  woman  out  of  all  the  world, 


FIERAVANTI  FACES  A  PROBLEM       83 

for  whose  sake  and  for  whose  love  that  world  itself  would 
be  well  lost! 

Xo !  There  was  no  such  love !  The  gaiety  was  a  pre- 
tence, the  smile  a  mask :  he  was  playing  his  part  for  pay 
as  any  hired  lover  upon  a  stage  might  play  it,  any  medio- 
cre actor  whose  spirit  was  untouched  by  the  mimic  pas- 
sion. As  in  Forli  so  now,  the  dice  were  cogged  and  the 
breaking  of  them  would  be  the  breaking  of  a  woman's 
heart  if  the  pretence  deceived  her.  But  would  the  pre- 
tence cheat  such  a  woman  as  the  maker  of  saints  judged 
Lucia  Faldora  to  be?  No!  Not  for  an  hour! 

That  she  did  not  see  Carlo  Faldora  as  Fieravanti  saw 
him  was  probable.  How  could  she,  lacking  his  experience 
and  knowledge  of  the  greater  world?  But  that  other 
shield  of  defence  which  nature  sets  in  a  woman's  armoury, 
intuition,  was  sufficient  to  guard  her  against  such  feints 
as  those  with  which  Faldora  pressed  his  cause.  If  she 
yielded  it  would  be  for  two  reasons — the  citadel  his  pre- 
tence sought  to  carry  was  empty ;  Lucia  Faldora  had  given 
love  to  no  man:  and  because,  being  thus  empty  of  heart, 
she  was  content  to  fill  the  void  with  Count  Ascanio's 
desire  for  the  small  feet  of  his  name.  What  then?  Being 
unloving  what  would  Lucia  Faldora  say  to  the  loveless 
lover  and  proven  cogger  of  dice?  Shifting  his  gaze  to 
her  face  their  eyes  met  and  on  the  instant  she  broke  with- 
out scruple  into  both  Count  Ascanio's  homily  upon  the 
supreme  value  of  citadels  and  Carlo  Faldora's  feint  as- 
pault  upon  her  own. 

"Signer  Fieravanti,  what  did  you  mean  when  you  said 
the  Keepers  of  the  Custom  might  burn  His  Grandeur's 
house  over  his  head  ?" 

"But,"  protested  Fieravanti  with  mock  gravity,  "is  that 
not  also  a  custom?" 

"A  custom?    To  burn  roofs?    How?    Where?    Why." 


84  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

"How?  With  complete  thoroughness,  no  doubt! 
Where?  Here  on  the  hills,  or  wheresoever  the  hills  are 
offended!  Why?  For  daring  to  interfere  with  the  ap- 
pointed lottery  of  the  knockers.  And  Brettinoro  believes 
both  how,  where  and  why.  As  a  jest  I  asked  the  urchins 
gathered  round  the  pillar  which  knocker  would  give  us 
soft  beds.  But  they  said  they  dared  not  answer  and  said 
it  in  a  whisper,  adding  that  if  any  spoke  his  house  would 
surely  burn  that  night." 

"But  that  is  different,  surely  you  see  that  that  is  dif- 
ferent ?"  It  was  Count  Ascanio,  misreading  Fieravanti's 
mock  gravity,  who  made  the  protest,  while  all  down  the 
table  there  was  a  listening  silence.  "Do  you  not  see  that 
if  they  took  upon  themselves  to  advise  there  would  be 
an  end  to  the  Custom?" 

"To  which,  because  of  your  advice,  Arzano  will  owe 
much  and  I  more.  What  site  in  Arzano  would  you  choose 
for  the  citadel?" 

But  for  her  own  reasons  Lucia  Faldora  was  not  minded 
to  let  the  table  slip  back  into  its  old  grouping.  She  might 
marry  her  cousin  in  order  that  the  old  name  should  con- 
tinue through  the  direct  line,  but  she  had  no  taste  for 
his  mock  philandering.  Had  his  egotism  but  guessed  it, 
the  pressing  of  his  suit  was  his  greatest  danger :  it  revolted 
her.  Now  she  turned  to  'Tonio. 

"Burn  roofs?  Does  Forli  think  that  to  burn  roofs  is 
the  pastime  of  hill-folk?" 

"It  is  not  what  Forli  thinks  but  what  the  hill-folk 
fear,"  answered  Hawk  bluntly.  "All  day  the  terror  of  it 
has  been  dinned  into  our  ears.  First  it  was  Lippo 

"Forget  Lippo,"  said  Fieravanti  sharply.  "Three  times 
over  I  have  told  you  we  have  nothing  to  do  with  Lippo. 
Regarding  the  citadel,  Count  Ascanio " 

But  Faldora  was  leaning  forward  across  the  table,  his 


FIERAVANTI  FACES  A  PROBLEM       85 

eyes  on  'Tonio  and  the  citadel  forgotten.  "Lippo?  Ser 
Antonio,  what  of  Lippo  and  the  burning  of  roofs?" 

"This,  Signor;  had  not  humble  hill-folk  half  way  from 
Castel-Cavo  warned  us  against  Lippo  at  the  risk,  as  they 
believed,  of  their  lives,  there  would  have  been  no  Custom 
of  Brettinoro  for  us  to-night?" 

"Because  of  Lippo?"  Faldora's  lean  face  had  flushed 
passionately  red  beneath  its  tan  of  sun  and  wind,  the 
mouth  hard,  the  eyes  fierce  as  only  old  eyes  can  be.  "No 
interferences  if  you  please;  this  touches  our  honour," 
and  with  a  gesture  not  to  be  denied  he  put  aside  Fieravanti 
when  he  would  have  spoken.  "What  of  Lippo,  Messer 
Hawk?" 

If  there  had  been  silence  before,  now  there  was  pro- 
found stillness.  From  the  lowest  servitor  to  Ascanio 
Faldora  all  were  leaning  inward  across  the  table,  their  eyes 
on  the  Englishman.  Even  Carlo  Faldora  had  lost  his  gay 
indifference.  The  mask  had  dropped;  his  stare  at  'Tonio 
was  fiercer  even  than  Count  Ascanio's :  had  the  girl  glanced 
at  him  she  must  have  seen  the  hard  lines  of  the  cruel 
mouth  which  Fieravanti  had  assumed  even  through  its 
repose.  Here,  surely,  was  a  stirring  of  the  old  blood  ?  If 
Lippo  and  Lippo's  band  touched  the  honour  of  Faldora  to 
its  hurt,  then,  in  the  contradiction  of  human  nature,  the 
cogger  of  dice  was  not  too  deeply  sunk  in  his  own  dis- 
honour to  defend  and  avenge  it. 

"Just  this,  signor.  But  for  a  warning  on  the  road  we 
must  have  fallen  into  Lippo's  trap  and " 

"And  but  for  courage  and  loyal  love  it  might  have  gone 
hard  with  us."  To  ease  the  tension  Fiervanti  intervened. 
"It  was  an  English  cudgel,  Illustrissmo,  that  won  us  a 
clear  road." 

"A  warning?"  said  Carlo,  his  eyes  still  on  'Tonio.  "Who 
warned  you?" 


86  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

"Does  that  matter?"    It  was  Fieravanti  who  replied. 

"Urn — to  give  them  thanks." 

But  the  sculptor  shook  his  head.  "Better  not.  The 
poor  souls  go  in  terror  of  Lippo's  revenge.  A  cruel  devil, 
they  called  him:  to  bring  his  vengeance  on  their  heads 
would  be  poor  payment  for  bite  and  sup." 

"You  ate  with  them?  Good!"  and  Carlo  Faldora  sat 
back  in  his  chair  like  a  man  whose  curiosity  is  satisfied. 

But  as  his  passion  cooled  Count  Ascanio's  quickened. 
"Lippo — Lippo — Lippo!"  he  said  between  set  teeth,  beat- 
ing the  table  with  his  fist  at  every  repetition.  "Let  Lippo 
take  heed  to  himself !  There  was  a  time  when  the  justice 
of  Faldora  should  have  hung  him  before  this  and,  by 
God!  it  would!  But  Faldora  is  no -longer  Faldora.  Half 
Eomagna  is  in  fief  to  Eome  and  Faldora  shrunk  to  a  petty 
lordship.  The  safety  of  the  roads  is  the  Church's  care,  the 
Church — no  offence,  Father,  you  know  I  speak  nothing 
but  the  truth — the  Church  that  stands  in  Faldora's  place 
and  of  more  like  him,  draining  our  revenues  and  leav- 
ing our  highways  to  the  mercy  of  Lippo  and  his  like. 
For  that,  let  the  Church  see  to  her  own  duty ;  I  shall  make 
no  move  unless  touched.  But  let  this  Lippo  beware;  if 
he  lays  so  much  as  a  finger  on  a  guest  of  Faldora's  he'll 
hang,  Church  or  no  Church ;  to  that  I  set  my  oath."  Still 
leaning  forward,  clenched  fist  on  table,  he  stared  up  and 
down  the  lines  of  faces  upon  either  side,  stared  with  a 
fierce  challenge  which  said,  plain  as  words,  "Do  you 
hear?  Heed,  then,  on  your  life."  And  Carlo  Faldora 
answered  while  the  Church,  in  the  persons  of  the  two 
clerics,  sat  discreetly  silent. 

"The  pity  of  it  is,  my  lord  and  uncle,  that  this  rogue 
Lippo  cannot  hear  your  warning  that  he  may  lay  it  to 
heart." 

"Are  you  the  fool  or  am  I?"  retorted  Faldora  tartly. 


FIERAVANTI  FACES  A  PROBLEM       87. 

"I  would  lay  a  wager  that  within  four  and  twenty  hours 
Lippo  will  have  heard :  let  him  take  heed." 

"Then  so  much  the  better  for  you,  signers,  both,  but 
specially  for  the  cudgel-bearer.  Faith  of  Faldora!  what 
a  weapon !" 

"It  was  good  enough  for  a  thief  and  maybe  for  a  thief's 
betters,"  answered  Hawk  grimly,  a  reply  which  wakened 
Fieravanti's  problem  afresh.  He  knew  against  whom  the 
hint  was  levelled,  but  was  less  sure  that  young  Faldora 
was  greatly  better  than  the  open  thief. 

But  even  while  his  doubts  swayed  between  silence  and 
"Enquire  of  Ordelaffi,"  his  host  laid  them. 

"So  much  the  better,  do  you  say,  Carlo?  So  much  the 
worse  for  Lippo  if  he  touches  any  guest  of  Faldora,  say  I. 
And,  Ser  Marco,  a  guest  you  are  and  a  guest  I  trust  you 
will  be  again  before  long.  The  old  war-horse  has  pricked 
his  ears  at  sound  of  the  trumpet!  Return  from  Arzano 
by  way  of  Brettinoro  I  beg  of  you,  and,  unless  the  Duke 
objects,  tell  me  your  recommendations.  Remember,  you 
have  no  longer  need  to  hammer  on  a  stone  for  a  welcome, 
therefore  ride  straight  to  the  Casa.  Father,  is  supper 
ended?  A  grace,  then,  if  you  please."  But,  the  Latin 
being  said  and  while  all  stood,  he  looked  up  and  down 
the  table  once  more.  "Let  Lippo  beware  how  he  touches 
the  honour  of  Faldora!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

HAWK    MEETS    AN   OLD   FRIEND 

SEATED  in  the  saddle  the  next  morning,  his  host's  hand 
in  his,  Fieravanti  thanked  God  silently  that  there  was 
now  no  need  to  say,  If  Lippo  threatened  the  honour  of 
Faldora,  ask  Ordelaffi  whether  there  is  not  another  who 
has  trampled  it  into  the  very  mud!  No;  it  would  be 
time  enough  to  speak  when  he  returned  from  Arzano  in 
a  month  or  less.  Nor  might  there  be  need  to  break 
silence  at  all.  Long  before  then  the  sordid  story  must 
surely  have  spread  to  Brettinoro,  and  silence  be  a  virtue. 

There  Fieravanti  forgot  four  things — that  there  was 
little  intercourse  between  the  hill  and  the  valley ;  that  Or- 
delaffi's  injunctions  to  silence  would  be  strict  lest  the  repu- 
tation of  his  Court  should  suffer;  that  there  were  few 
travellers  from  Forli  by  way  of  Brett' aoro  and  that,  not 
uncommonly,  the  last  to  hear  such  a  tale  were  those  most 
concerned :  he  would  be  a  bold  man  who,  for  mere  gossip, 
would  say  to  Ascanio  Faldora,  Your  nephew  and  heir  is 
a  cheat!  But  upon  these  four  things  the  cheat  counted, 
and  to  them  he  added  a  fifth — few  men  in  Rornagna  had 
his  skill  in  sword-play. 

That  Carlo  Faldora  did  not  make  a  fifth  with  Tribalda 
at  the  gate  of  the  Casa  was  also  a  relief.  Not  easily  could 
Fieravanti  have  taken,  in  seeming  friendliness,  the  hand 
of  the  man  he  might  yet  have  to  denounce.  But  there 
he  need  not  have  fretted  through  anticipation.  Because 
of  the  folly  of  the  Custom  young  Faldora  might  break 

88 


HAWK  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND        89 

bread  with  a  hewer  of  marble,  and  for  the  same  reason 
his  uncle  speed  the  guest  in  courtesy,  but  Carlo  touched 
hands  only  with  his  equal ;  amongst  these  he  did  not  count 
the  maker  of  saints,  still  less  Anthony  Hawk  the  cudgel 
bearer ! 

Nor  was  Lucia  Faldora  one  of  the  group  at  the  Casa 
gate.  It  was  not  her  habit  to  bid  farewell  to  chance  com- 
ers through  the  Custom,  and  not  even  the  interest  roused 
by  the  maker  of  saints,  whose  fame  was  steadily  spread- 
ing through  Italy,  could  induce  her  to  vary  her  practice. 

But  being  very  much  of  a  woman  and  no  saint  as  yet, 
curiosity  drew  her  to  one  of  those  flanking  turrets  which 
Fieravanti  had  noted  through  the  falling  dusk.  From  its 
battlemented  roof  the  open  gate  stood  in  full  view,  and 
there,  as  she  leaned  across  the  wall,  a  scarf  bound  wimple- 
fashion  over  her  hair  against  the  chill  of  the  March  morn- 
ing, Father  Bernardo  found  her. 

For  more  than  thirty  years  he  had  served  God  and 
Faldora  faithfully  and  fearlessly  out  of  a  simple  heart, 
never  forgetting  that  love  is  the  fulfilling  of  the  law  and 
that  even  for  love  there  is  a  law  which  must  be  fulfilled. 
Through  these  thirty  years  he  had  seen  birth  and  death, 
the  amaranth  and  the  asphodel,  the  coming  of  life  and  its 
passing:  had  shared  its  gladness  with  childhood,  its  sor- 
rows with  age;  had  seen  youth  bud  to  its  flower  and  the 
flower  fade  while  as  yet  there  was  no  fruit;  had  watched 
with  sorrowing  eyes  of  sympathy  the  stripping  of  the  an- 
cient stock  to  its  one  last  shoot.  And  because  of  all  these 
things,  the  coming  of  babes  in  their  helplessness  and  the 
passing  of  men  in  their  strength,  with  all  the  linked  joys 
and  griefs  which  lay  between,  he  had  grown  into  the  life 
of  the  Casa  as  a  graft  grows  with  the  life  of  the  tree  whoee 
eap  is  its  vigour.  Always  the  priest  of  Qod,  yet  more  and 
more  the  friend  of  those  to  whom  he  ministered,  as  God's 
priest  should  be,  reverence  for  his  office  and  trust  in  the 


90  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

man  had  so  grown  up  side  by  side  that  it  was  to  the  friend, 
rather  than  to  the  confessor,  that  the  secrets  and  trouble* 
of  both  Count  Ascanio  and  Lucia  Faldora  were  confided. 
Between  him  and  the  girl  the  bonds  of  mutual  aifection 
were  particularly  strong.  Now,  as  he  leaned  across  the 
wall  at  her  side,  she  laid  a  familiar  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"The  statue  of  Our  Lady  in  San  Giovanni  is  very  beauti- 
ful, Father." 

The  priest  nodded  thoughtfully.  "Those  who  call  him 
a  maker  of  saints  speak  more  truly  than  they  know.  It  is 
like  this:  Our  clods  of  peasants — I  do  not  speak  in  con- 
tempt but  as  I  find  them — 'need  to  have  their  imaginations 
fired  through  the  eye.  The  marble  lifts  their  thoughts, 
and  so  they  understand  us  better  when  we  preach  the 
mercy  of  God.  A  wise  man,  His  Grandeur." 

"Yes — perhaps:  simple  and  lovable,  I  thought,  but  I 
saw  no  great  wisdom." 

"Bread  is  simple,  yet  we  live  by  it,  and  the  simplest 
wisdom  is  the  truest,  for  then  even  fools  can  understand." 

The  girl  laughed.  "Then  am  I  worse  than  a  fool,  for 
I  fail  to  see  His  Grandeur's  special  wisdom." 

"In  sending  Marco  Fieravanti  to  Faldora:  Brettinoro, 
too,  has  need  of  one  saint  to  make  many.  There !  the  fare- 
wells are  said!  Help  me  in  this,  my  daughter:  before 
Marco  Fieravanti  returns  help  me  to  win  the  Count's  con- 
sent to  a  statue  for  the  Casa's  chapel." 

"But "  On  the  word  she  paused.  Fieravanti,  turn- 
ing to  wave  a  final  salute  to  his  host  had  caught  sight  of 
the  two  outlined  against  the  sky  as  they  leaned  across 
the  turret  wall;  snatching  off  his  hat  he  sat  bareheaded. 
The  priest  alone  responded. 

"But?"  he  repeated  as,  unstirring  and  unstirred,  she 
looked  silently  down  into  the  depths. 

"That  would  mean  months  at  the  casa  for  both  him  and 
his  scarpellino.  Where  his  work  is  he  must  be." 


HAWK  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND        91 

"That,  too,  might  be  wise." 

At  the  dry  significance  in  the  voice  she  turned,  but  his 
gaze,  tender,  kindly,  wistful,  was  bent  downwards  and, 
half  involuntarily,  she  followed  it.  Fieravanti  still  sat 
bareheaded ;  he  had  checked  his  horse  and  the  clear  morn- 
ing sun  picked  out  the  upturned  face  as  with  a  wizard's 
brush,  warming  the  lights  in  the  brown  of  the  chestnut 
hair  to  a  ruddy  gold. 

"There,"  said  Bernardo,  "is,  I  think,  not  only  a  man 
but  a  good  man;  no  saint  like  those  he  carves  for  our 
clods,  but  a  man  of  warm  blood  who  will  never  swerve  a 
hairsbreadth  from  his  conscience  for  fear  or  favour,  love 
or  hate :  a  man  for  whom  there  is  but  one  law — the  highest 
as  he  sees  it:  might  not  our  Carlo  have  need  of  such? 
Oh,  do  not  mistake;  I  must  be  honest  with  you;  it  is  my 
own  need,  or  my  people's,  that  I  am  thinking  of  first  of 
all,  not  Carlo's.  But,  daughter,"  and  that  he  so  spoke, 
calling  her  daughter  and  not  using  the  Lucia  of  long 
familiar  custom,  was  a  sure  testimony  that  he  was  deeply 
in  earnest,  "we  know  our  Carlo — a  little.  Some  men  learn 
from  priests — not  Carlo:  some  men  learn  from  good 
women — not  Carlo,  I  think:  some  men  learn  from  men 
stronger  than  themselves — Carlo?  Yes,  perhaps,  if  it  is  a 
strength  which  leads,  not  drives.  Bid  him  farewell,  Lucia : 
we  may  have  need  of  him." 

Obediently,  if  mechanically,  the  girl  waved  a  hand  down- 
ward and  outwards;  in  response  Fieravanti  bowed  and 
rode  on.  The  dry  significance  she  had  vaguely  understood. 
Towards  this  marriage  Father  Bernardo  was  neutral, 
sympathising  with  Count  Ascanio's  natural  desire  that  the 
old  name  should  live  where  the  old  name  had  lived  so 
long,  but  recognising  that  on  the  girl's  part  there  was 
indifference,  almost,  he  feared  at  times,  distaste. 

But  distaste  in  itself  was  no  objection  in  an  age  which 
held  that  women  were  almost  as  much  the  chattels  of 


92  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

barter  as  any  beast  of  the  field :  nor,  to  the  priest  in  whom 
the  man's  love  for  the  woman  had  never  stirred,  did  a 
loveless  marriage  seem  a  hardship,  much  less  a  sin  against 
nature.  Meanwhile,  to  the  girl's  indifference  the  coming 
of  Marco  Fieravanti  could  be  no  intrusion:  it  might,  his 
significance  hinted,  even  be  a  relief,  and  through  diver- 
sion of  thought  prevent  distaste  from  taking  too  deep  a 
root.  After  marriage — well,  after  marriage  children  would 
come  and  small  feet  would  waken  happy  echoes  in  empty 
hearts  as  well  as  upon  empty  stairs. 

As  to  Fieravanti's  influence  upon  Carlo  Faldora,  that 
was  an  afterthought  honestly  spoken.  Propinquity  is  a 
great  force  whose  unobtrusive  power  is  not  always  recog- 
nised; if  evil  is  so  readily  absorbed  through  association 
why  not  good?  And  it  was  his  firm  conviction,  both  as 
priest  and  man,  that  the  maker  of  a  soul  of  goodness  in 
others  must  himself  be  good. 

Until  the  horsemen  had  disappeared  from  sight  the 
girl  kept  silence,  then: 

"Carlo?  So  far  as  Carlo  is  concerned  you  will  fail; 
he  will  never  learn  from  a  half  peasant  like  this  Marco 
Fieravanti,"  she  said,  but  whether  the  hardly  conscious 
contempt  was  for  the  half-peasant  or  Carlo  was  uncer- 
tain. "Let  your  maker  of  saints  come  if  you  will.  He 
interests  my  grandfather,  and  that  Brettinoro  is  a  vil- 
lage of  clods  is  true  enough." 

But  there  was  at  least  one  spark  of  the  divine  in  its 
cloddishness.  Scarcely  had  Fieravanti  rounded  the  sharp 
incline  descending  to  the  village  when  a  small  figure  in 
patched  rags  burst  from  the  concealment  of  a  wayside 
bush,  where  it  had  long  lain  in  wait,  and  raced  towards 
him,  one  hand  beckoning  him  to  halt,  the  other  clenched 
as  deeply  in  the  pocket  as  when  it  had  disappeared  into 
the  growing  dusk  of  the  night  before.  Almost  the  pinched 


HAWK  MEETS  AN  OLD  FKIEND        93 

face  looked  pitifully  smaller  as  Piero  panted  and  stam- 
mered by  the  sculptor's  stirrup-leather,  too  out  of  breath 
and  too  excited  to  be  coherent. 

"Signer,  there  was  a  mistake — at  least,  the  mother 
thinks  that  in  the  dark — Signer,  it  was  gold  you  gave  me, 
not  silver,  and — and — here  it  is."  There  were  tears  in  the 
eyes  and  a  half  whimpered  sob  in  the  eager  voice  as  he 
fetched  the  doubled  fist  from  the  depths  of  the  pocket  and 
held  out  a  tiny  bundle,  neatly  folded.  Gold  was  too 
precious  in  Brettinoro  not  to  be  wrapped  with  care. 

At  the  unconscious  appeal  of  the  brimming  eyes  and 
quivering  mouth  Fieravanti  felt  the  moisture  blur  his 
own  gaze  as  he  looked  gravely  down,  too  deeply  moved  to 
smile  at  the  pathetic  humour  of  the  ragged  figure  fumbling 
at  his  boot,  unknowing  that  it  fumbled.  Then  with  a 
gulp  Piero  controlled  himself:  if  he  cried  outright  the 
signer  might  misunderstand  the  tears,  and  that  would 
vex  the  mother  at  home. 

"Gold?"  said  Fieravanti.  "Let  me  see?"  Unfolding 
the  tiny  bundle  he  turned  the  coin  out  into  his  palm :  here 
was  heart's  ease  for  a  time  and  comfort  to  a  sore  spirit 
in  the  feeding  of  hungry  mouths:  yet  for  conscience  sake 
the  hungry  mouths  must  go  hungry.  Wistfully  the  dark 
eyes  of  the  lad,  darker  for  their  tears,  followed  the  move- 
ment. "Gold?  Why,  so  it  is !  And  it  was  dark  last  night, 
and  the  mother  thinks — yes,  yes,  I  understand.  Well, 
little  son,  thafs  soon  mended ;  here  is  silver  for  it." 

But  at  sight  of  the  ten  sols  piece,  though  double  his  last 
night's  expectation,  the  working  of  the  mouth  would  not 
be  controlled  even  by  the  little  white  teeth  biting  hard  at 
the  lip.  We  never  know  how  high  or  how  firmly  founded 
have  been  our  hopes  until  some  jolt  of  a  hard  world 
tumbles  them  into  ruins.  Quickly,  for  the  tension  was 
strained  to  snapping,  and  tears,  he  knew,  would  be  a 


94  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

shame  and  a  disgrace,  scalding  more  than  the  eyes  they 
burned,  Fieravanti  slipped  the  two  coins  into  the  doth, 
twisted  the  folds  into  a  hard  knot  and  stooped. 

"Here,  little  son;  run  home  to  the  mother  and  thank 
God  for  her  every  day  of  your  life;  only,  tell  her  that 
last  night  there  was  no  mistake,"  then  with  a  nod,  his 
eyes  shining  behind  their  blur,  he  rode  on.  As  to  Piero, 
the  tears  had  now  come  in  earnest.  To  cry  more  than 
"Signer — Signor — Signer,"  as  they  flooded  his  white 
cheeks  was  beyond  him. 

"There  is  something  to  set  against  the  Lippos  of  the 
world!"  said  Fieravanti  as  'Tonio  ranged  alongside  him. 
"When  God  made  us  he  made  nothing  better  or  wiser  than 
tears — they  are  a  salve  to  all  wounds,  a  soothing  to  sor- 
row, an  ease  to  the  joy  that  is  half  pain ;  through  them  we 
can  look  upon  death  and  see  the  light  behind  the  shadow ; 
they  blot  out  offences,  they  bind  friendships,  and  for 
every  fret  of  soul  or  spirit  they  have  their  balm:  God  be 
thanked  for  the  mercy  of  tears ;  so  long  as  they  can  fall  no 
heart  will  break." 

"Yes,  signer,  I  suppose  so,"  answered  'Tonio,  not  very 
relevantly.  All  through  the  farewells  he  had  been  pre- 
occupied and  unresponsive,  sitting  his  horse  apart.  Now 
it  was  clear  that  the  interlude  which  so  moved  Fieravanti 
had  affected  him  not  at  all.  "But  touching  that  same 
Lippo,  what  was  Giro  doing  in  the  Casa  this  morning?" 

"Giro?"  At  the  edge  on  the  Englishman's  voice  Fiera- 
vanti came  out  of  his  exalted  mood  with  a  start.  "Who  is 
Giro?" 

"Lippo's  pick-purse  whose  head  I  broke  yesterday." 

"Giro?  Yes,  I  remember  now;  he  was  certainly  called 
Giro.  But  in  the  Casa  this  morning?  That  is  not  pos- 
sible." 

"Do  you  think  I  do  not  know  my  own  handiwork?"  an- 
swered 'Tonio  with  grim  humour.  "His  head  was  as  tight 


HAWK  MEETS  AN  OLD  FRIEND        95 

in  its  bloodied  cloth  as  the  signorina's  in  her  blue  wimple 
as  she  leaned  across  the  wall  just  now.  I  heard  him  gay 
he  fell  on  the  road  and,  by  the  Lord,  he  spoke  the  truth 
there,  though  something  else  fell  on  him  first.  They  called 
him  Giro — Giro  of  the  dogs." 

"Giro,  perhaps;  but  not  Lippo's  Giro:  the  name  is 
common." 

"Lippo's  Giro  without  a  doubt.  It  was  not  just  his 
broken  crown:  broken  crowns  are  common  as  Giros!  nor 
that  I  knew  his  face,  for  I  did  not;  but  the  hand  he 
lifted  to  guard  his  skull  against  the  cudgel  had  lost  the 
little  finger,  and  this  Giro  had  lost  the  same  finger  of  the 
same  fist." 

"Lippo's  Giro  in  the  Casa?    What  was  he  doing  there?" 

"Asking  for  that  courteous  gentleman  who  drives  better 

folk  than  himself  off  the  road  and  then  cries,  Clear  the 

way,  cattle!     By  Saint  Dunstan,  but  some  day " 

"Did  you  challenge  him — Giro,  I  mean?*' 
Hawk  smiled  sourly.     "No,  signer,  not  after  your  last 
night's  tongue-trouncing.     Besides,  we  come  back  in  a 
month  and  by  Saint  Dunstan,  who  took  the  devil  by  the 
noge " 

"He  was  asking  for  Carlo  Faldora,  you  say?" 
"Yes,  signor;  and  not  only  asking  but  finding.  They 
rode  off  together.  There's  a  lover  for  you!  He  returns 
from  Forli  only  yesterday  and  instead  of  being  up  in  the 
turret  with  his  lady,  just  the  two  together,  he  leaves  her 
to  a  priest  and  rides  off,  the  devil  knows  best  where,  with 
Lippo's  Giro!  Small  wonder  she  turned  her  shoulder  on 
him  last  night !  I  doubt  if  she  will  shed  many  tears  when 
there  is  another  head  broken — as  there  will  be,  God  giving 
me  life." 

"Leave  the  signora  out  of  it,  'Tonio.  The  private  affairs 
of  the  Casa  are  nothing  to  us.  This  Giro,  did  you  ask  who 
he  was?" 


96  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

"Yee,  signer.  We  were  all  in  the  stables  \rhile  the 
horses  were  a-saddling.  When  he  had  gone  off  with  our 
civil  gentleman  I  said,  Who's  this,  who  finds  the  road 
harder  than  his  skull?  and  they  told  me  he  was  a  peasant 
who  worked  a  far-off  vineyard  belonging  to  the  Casa." 

"And  what  did  you  say?" 

"That  he  rode  well  for  a  peasant.  But  they  explained 
that — the  young  signor  sends  him  here  and  there  on  the 
business  of  the  Casa." 

"So  your  question  is  answered  and  we  know  what 
Lippo's  Giro  was  doing  there  this  morning !  No  doubt  he 
lives  a  double  life;  is  honest  with  Faldora  for  an  honest 
wage  and  thieves  between  times  with  Lippo." 

"Let  me  get  Brother  Staff  well  home  on  the  thievish 
half  of  his  skull  and  God  pity  his  honesty !"  said  'Tonio. 

But  Fieravanti  rode  on  his  way  in  silence,  a  second  per- 
plexity rubbing  shoulders  with  the  first.  On  his  return 
should  he  hint  to  Carlo  Faldora  that  more  than  he  played 
the  game  of  life  with  cogged  dice?  That  it  could  be  birds 
of  a  feather  fulfilling  the  proverb  was  impossible. 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  THE  CA8A  GARDEN 

OF  Fieravanti's  stay  in  Arzano  there  are  only  two  things 
to  be  said — Count  Ascanio's  shrewd  guess  was  justified :  the 
Duke's  thoughts  turned  to  the  strengthening  of  the  city 
and  not  to  the  edifying,  or  building  up,  of  the  Church; 
nor  would  any  Venus  in  stone  have  contented  him.  There- 
in he  resembled  Girolamo  Ordelaffi  and  most  others  of  his 
degree  in  that  age.  Also,  he  raised  no  objection  to  gratify- 
ing Faldora's  curiosity. 

"What  harm?"  he  said  when  Fieravanti  put  the  ques- 
tion. "It  is  true  that  in  '86  he  and  Urbino  sacked  the  city : 
I  was  then  in  the  cradle,  or  not  long  out  of  it,  and  owe 
him  no  grudge.  Now  the  old  dog  has  grown  too  dull  in 
the  teeth  to  bite,  so  I  say  again,  What  harm?" 

"There  is  a  young  dog — Carlo." 

"And  the  Count  might  pass  on  our  plan?"  Arzano 
shook  his  head.  "You  do  not  know  Ascanio  Faldora !  A 
chivalrous  gentleman  to  his  tallest  inch,  were  he  to  at- 
tempt '86  again  he  would  die  under  our  walls  rather  than 
batter  a  breach  through  knowledge  learned  in  friendliness. 
As  to  Carlo,  a  peasant's  roof  or  a  woman's  good  name  will 
see  all  the  sacking  he  will  lay  hand  to  in  this  world !" 

"A  coward,  Your  Magnificence?" 

"Coward?  No!  A  rat  is  no  coward,  but  it  does  not 
fight  in  the  open." 

"And  yet  rats  have  pulled  down  houses  before  now?" 

97 


98  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

"Aye — the  houses  they  live  in.  As  to  my  new  walls  and 
ditches,  tell  old  Ascanio  what  you  please,  Ser  Marco/' 

But  even  with  Ascanio  Faldora's  hints  to  guide  him, 
and  they  were  drawn  on  freely — only  the  small-minded 
man,  unsure  of  himself,  is  afraid  openly  to  borrow  an- 
other's brains — April  had  passed  and  May  lay  warm  on 
the  hills  before  Fieravanti  was  free  to  quit  Arzano.  With 
untired  horses  under  them  and  the  road  mostly  down  hill 
it  was  a  short  day's  journey  to  Brettinoro,  nor,  this  time, 
was  there  any  delay  at  the  pillar  of  the  Custom. 

With  the  sun  still  high  the  Casa's  great  gate  stood  wide 
when  Fieravanti  and  English  Anthony  drew  rein  before 
it.  Tribalda  himself  came  out  to  offer  a  widely  different 
welcome  from  that  which  had  greeted  them  when  under 
Piero's  guidance.  Clearly  he  .had  his  orders.  But  apart 
from  all  orders  his  soldier's  heart  had  gone  frankly  out 
to  this  maker  of  saints  who  knew  so  well  the  science  of 
grim  defence.  For  half  Italy  war  was  the  business  of 
life,  for  the  other  half  the  terror:  here  was  a  man  from 
whom  even  great  captains  might  learn  one  side  of  their 
trade. 

"Three  weeks  we  have  looked  for  you  and  the  Count's 
temper  is  worn  thin  with  waiting!  He  began  to  fear 
Arzano  was  curmudgeon  and  you  had  returned  by  the 
other  road.  Now  that  he  has  you  he'll  squeeze  you  dry 
as  a  last  year's  orange." 

"The  orange  is  of  his  own  filling,  so  let  him  squeeze 
and  welcome.  There's  no  need  to  ring  the  bell;  'Tonio 
knows  his  way  to  the  stables." 

But  Giuseppe,  who  had  arrived  on  the  scene,  would 
listen  to  no  such  suggestion:  the  very  hint  of  it  was  an 
offence.  "By  your  leave,  signors,  by  your  leave.  Let 
lackeys  do  lackeys'  work.  God  He  knows  there  are  enough 
to  serve  the  guests  of  the  Casa.  This  way,  signors." 


IN  THE  CASA  GAKDEN  99 

But  Fieravanti  paused,  his  hand  in  Tribalda's.  "The 
Count  is  well?" 

"Fretted,  I  think.  Lippo,  of  -whom  you  know  something, 
has  given  trouble." 

"Lippo?  There's  work  for  young  blood.  Why  does 
Carlo  Faldora  not  clear  out  that  nest  of  thieves?" 

"Better  not  ask  that  at  supper,"  answered  Tribalda 
drily. 

"Come,  signers,  come,"  called  Giuseppe  impatiently  and, 
recognising  that  he  stood  on  doubtful  ground,  Fieravanti 
obeyed. 

Without  doubt  the  major-domo  also  had  his  orders,  but 
while  he  obeyed  to  the  letter  he  rebelled  in  spirit.  Marco 
Fieravanti?  Who  was  Marco  Fieravanti  to  be  received  as 
a  guest  of  the  Casa,  not  a  guest  through  the  chance  of  the 
Custom  but  a  guest  of  Faldora  as  if  he  called  himself 
Colonna,  Orsini,  or  even  Ordclaffi?  In  secret  Giuseppe 
despised  Ordelaffi,  an  upstart  who  had  risen  as  Faldora 
had  fallen.  But  Fieravanti?  Who  in  all  the  great  world 
ever  before  heard  of  a  Fieravanti?  Discourteous?  No! 
Giuseppi  owed  too  great  a  respect  to  the  bread  he  ate  to 
be  discourteous  to  Faldora's  guests,  however  simple,  but 
as  the  sculptor  followed  the  major-domo  a  line  or  two 
from  the  great  poem  of  Durante,  or  Dante  Alighieri, 
which,  newly  written  and  as  yet  known  only  in  fragments, 
was  slowly  gripping  men's  imaginations  never  to  slacken 
hold  to  the  world's  end,  rose  to  his  memory, 

Thou  shalt  have  proof 
How  hard  a  road  the  going  down  and  up  another's  stain. 

Had  the  bitter  heart  of  the  exile,  he  wondered,  cried  out 
against  his  own  experiences  when  he  put  these  words  into 
the  mouth  of  Cacciaguida? 


100  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

'This  way,  signers/'  said  Giuseppi,  and  Fieravanti  found 
himself  housed  in  strange  quarters:  not  such,  perhaps,  as 
would  have  been  allotted  to  a  Colonna  but  far  removed 
from  what  was  held  sufficient  for  travelling  merchants. 

Stuff  hangings  covered  the  lower  courses  of  the  walls,  a 
padded  chair  stood  in  the  corner  beyond  the  wide-mouthed 
hearth,  two  or  three  rugs  were  spread  upon  the  floor  of 
composite  mosaic  work.  With  the  curt  intimation  that 
they  would  be  informed  when  supper  was  ready  to  be 
served  the  major-domo  left  them. 

But  Fieravanti  did  not  relish  remaining  behind  closed 
doors:  much  might  have  happened  in  their  weeks  of  ab- 
sence which  it  was  their  wisdom  to  know  lest  ignorance 
should  blunder  into  offence  or,  still  worse,  make  mischief. 
So  presently  he  bade  'Tonio  find  the  stables;  solicitude  as 
to  how  their  horses  had  borne  the  day's  journey  was 
excuse  enough. 

"Ask  after  this  Giro,  not  as  Lippo's  Giro  but  Giro  of 
the  broken  head.  Do  your  questioning  cautiously  lest  you 
stir  a  wasp's  nest." 

'Tonio  grinned.  "He  who  stirs  up  a  wasp's  nest  with 
his  tongue  is  likely  to  talk  little  thereafter." 

"So  little  that  he  might  never  talk  at  all,"  answered 
Fieravanti  drily.  "Therefore  be  watchful." 

When  in  turn  he  retraced  the  way  they  had  come, 
pausing  now  by  a  suit  of  damascened  armour  from  Saint 
Bernard's  Crusade,  now  to  examine  a  painted  Sicilian 
vase  or  an  Etruscan  lamp  of  pierced  brass  work,  a  sudden 
sense  of  great  stillness  fell  upon  him  and  he  understood 
Ascanio  Faldora's  longing  that  small  feet  and  eager  young 
voices  should  set.  the  echoes  flying.  Though,  as  Giuseppe 
had  said,  there  were  servitors  enough  they  moved  softly, 
their  numbers  lost  in  the  dimness  of  the  long  aisles:  only 
up  the  broad  staircase  was  there  any  sound  of  life,  a 


IN  THE  CASA  GARDEN  101 

murmur  from  the  great  hall,  subdued  by  distance.  In 
the  greyness,  and  at  its  best  of  daylight  the  corridort 
and  vaulted  hollow  of  the  stairs  were  grey  to  gloom,  so 
narrow  were  the  windows,  the  Casa  seemed  a  habitation  of 
quiet  ghosts  rather  than  of  men  and  women  whose  blood 
ran  hot  in  their  veins. 

Young  feet?  Eager  small  voices?  How  they  would 
banish  the  ghosts  of  an  outworn  past  and  set  the  heart 
of  the  present  a-beating!  Slowly  descending  the  stairs 
Fieravanti  found  himself  treading  softly  lest  his  man's 
feet  should  waken  echoes  which,  reaching  Ascanio  Fal- 
dora's  ears,  might  stir  more  deeply  those  poignant  memo- 
ries of  death  and  loss,  which  now  only  a  babe's  voice  could 
comfort.  God  send  him  the  consolation  of  small  hands 
in  his  before  he  died!  Comfort?  Consolation?  Surely 
to  sorrowful  old  age  there  is  no  such  sacring  as  the 
touch  of  innocent,  soft  lips? 

And  with  that  thought  stirring  his  heart  to  sympathy 
Fieravanti  passed  through  an  open  door  into  the  mellow 
glory  of  May  sunshine  flooding  a  garden  flecked  with 
shadows,  to  find  Lucia  Faldora,  tall  in  cool  lawn,  where 
the  shadows  fell  thickest.  As  he  saw  her  a  quaint  whimsy 
seized  him — shadowed  ?  Yes !  but  the  shadows  cast  by  sun- 
shine are  of  God's  making  and  not  man's! 

Hearing  his  footfall  she  came  to  meet  him.  If  some 
little  curiosity  stirred  her — the  man  was  famous,  or  would 
be  some  day — it  was  not  apparent;  her  greeting  was 
gravely  courteous  and  nothing  more. 

"My  grandfather  has  almost  despaired,  Ser  Fieravanti." 

"Count  Ascanio  is  more  than  kind '' 

"To  himself,"  she  interrupted  with  a  laugh.  "You 
brought  a  new  interest  into  his  life." 

"But  he  has  interests  enough  in  Faldora  surely — end 
the  hope  of  more?" 


102  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

Instantly  her  face  hardened :  this  peasant  sculptor  forgot 
his  place  and  presumed.  Eebuke  and  distaste  were  alike  in 
her  changed  voice  as  she  answered, 

"The  hope  of  hearing  how  you  have  settled  Arzano's 
defence?  Yes.  Has  the  Duke  given  his  consent?" 

"Without  reserve." 

"Then,  in  that  case  you  will  be  very  welcome." 

The  acid  in  the  tone  bit  deeper  than  the  words  and 
Fieravanti  blamed  himself  bitterly.  Fresh  from  the  ap- 
pealing silences  of  the  great  stairway  he  had  forgotten 
Carlo  Faldora  and  his  cheating  dice.  Impulsively,  and 
misreading  the  pride  in  which  her  resentment  was  rooted, 
he  decided  to  speak  a  warning  as  plainly  as  he  dared.  To 
Ascanio  Faldora  he  might,  if  driven,  say  bluntly,  "The 
man  is  no  better  than  a  thief;  ask  Ordelaffi,"  but  scarcely 
to  the  woman  by  whose  side  he  walked.  Not  because  she 
was  Lucia  Faldora,  but  in  his  reverence  for  all  women 
Fieravanti  disliked  bringing  men's  vices  too  near  lest  the 
very  knowledge  of  them  should  stain  or  coarsen. 

"Signora,  I  am,  as  you  know,  of  Forli.    In  Forli 

he  hesitated  choosing  his  words,  "All  men  do  not  speak 
well  of — of — Carlo  Faldora." 

"No?"  There  was  a  little  curling  smile  on  her  lip  as 
she  looked  up  at  him.  "But,  perhaps  in  Forli  men  do 
not  always  speak  well  of  their  hosts?" 

"You  are  wrong:  in  this  case  it  is  the  host  who  does 
not  speak  well  of  his  guest." 

"We  also,  I  think.  Were  the  roads  from  Arzano  pleas- 
ant, Signer  Fieravanti?" 

"Signorina,  I  beg  you  to  believe  that  though  I  am  a 
guest " 

"Signer,  but  that  mv  grandfather  has  a  proposal  to  make 
to  you  in  the  way  of  your  trade  I  would  say  I  hope  you 
will  find  the  road  to  Forli  pleasant  to-morrow.  My  cousin 
is — my  cousin.  As  to  Forli,  I  am  not  curious." 


IN  THE  CASA  GARDEN  103 

"If  your  cousin  is  to  remain  your  cousin  I  have  nothing 
more  to  say,  but " 

She  paused  in  her  slow  walk,  turning  on  him  with  the 
vexed  coldness  of  outraged  pride.  "Signor  Fieravanti,  it 
is  intolerable  that  you  should  meddle  with  our  private 
affairs." 

In  their  wanderings  they  had  passed  from  under  the 
trees  and  entered  an  open  grassy  space  where  stood  an 
ancient  sundial;  by  its  side  her  pause  had  halted  them. 
Stooping,  to  gain  time  to  arrange  his  thoughts,  Fieravanti 
read  the  motto  and  laid  a  finger  on  the  graven  words. 
"On  me  and  on  all 
Shadows  must  fall" 
he  quoted. 

"Signorina,  my  hope  was  to  keep  yon  longer  in  the 
sunshine:  the  only  shadows  which  can  truly  blight  are 
those  of  our  own  making:  all  others  pass.  Yes,  the  road 
from  Arzano  was  pleasant,  but  not  more  pleasant  than 
I  hope  to  find  the  hills  behind  Brettinoro  and  Forli — 
Lippo  permitting!" 

"Oh,  Lippo!"  she  cried,  grasping  willingly  enough  at 
the  change  of  subject.  "Surely  if  His  Holiness  knew  of 
Lippo's  violence  he  would  sweep  the  roads  clear  of  him !" 

"Rome  is  far  off!  Should  not  those  nearer  do  the 
sweeping?" 

"You  mean  my  grandfather?  And  so  he  will  if  Lippo 
so  much  as  touches  the  honour  of  Faldora." 

"And  yet,  signorina,  when  I,  three  minutes  back,  pled 
for  the  honour  of  Faldora  you  whipped  me  with  whips  of 
scorn.  It  is  true  you  are  Lucia  Faldora  and  I  only  Marco 
Fieravanti,  but,  by  the  God  who  made  us  both,  it  was  not 
to  your  credit  either  as  a  Faldora  or  a  woman  so  to  scourge 
the  man  whose  sole  thought  was  to  interpose  between  you 
and  a  bitter  repentance.  Carlo  Faldora — your  pardon, 
your  pardon,  let  me  finish;  this  time  there  will  be  no 


104  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

offence — what  is  Carlo  Faldora  to  me  that  I  should  care 
how  he  plays  the  rake  and  fool  and  worse  down  in 
Forli?  If  you  know  and  are  content,  if  you  condone,  if 
your  eyes  are  open — tout  there!  What  is  Lucia  Faldora 
to  me  either !  Signorina,  most  humbly  I  ask  your  pardon : 
how  could  a  Faldora  touch  the  honour  of  Faldora !  Im- 
possible! That  is  left  to  the  Lippos  of  the  world!" 

Again  he  had  spoken  on  an  impulse.  It  was,  perhaps, 
just  this  obedience  to  impulse  which  went  to  the  making 
of  his  saints,  for  is  not  all  inspiration  by  way  of  impulse? 
Only,  if  the  impulse  failed  to  find  the  right  expression  in 
the  clay  he  could  mould  it  out  and  begin  afresh;  but 
words,  once  spoken,  were  like  the  final  stroke  of  his  chisel. 
Now,  his  ruddy  fairness  flushing  a  little  with  the  ironic 
passion  which  shook  him,  he  turned  half  from  her  and 
stood  looking  out  across  the  expanse  of  the  garden.  Un- 
consciously, as  men  will  in  righteous  anger  or  indignation, 
he  had  drawn  his  height  to  its  fullest,  had  thrown  back 
his  head  and  squared  his  shoulders  as  if  to  meet  and  repel 
attack.  In  the  thick  chestnut  hair  and  curling  russet 
beard  the  westering  sun  lit  fire,  and  though,  because  of 
the  shifted  face,  the  girl  could  not  see  his  eyes  she  had 
little  doubt  that  they,  too,  were  ablaze. 

And  she?  As  tense  as  he  and  as  shaken,  she  stood  in 
silence  half  a  pace  behind  him  striving  to  puzzle  out  what 
manner  of  man  this  was  who  dared  thus  let  loose  upon 
her  both  rebuke  and  contempt  in  such  a  flood.  For  they 
were  both  there — rebuke  for  the  Faldora  pride  and  con- 
tempt for  the  blindness  that  would  not  see  and  under- 
stand his  simple  honesty  of  purpose. 

And  so  striving,  her  eyes  searching  the  half  turned  face 
at  leisure  because,  his  thoughts  elsewhere,  he  had  no 
suspicion  that  she  searched,  she  became  aware  that,  what- 
ever the  spirit  of  the  man  might  be,  no  Colonna  or 
Orsini  she  had  ever  seen  could  match  him  for  looks. 


IN  THE  CASA  GARDEN  105 

Surprise  was  her  first  emotion,  astonishment  that  a  man 
of  the  people  who  but  for  his  genius  might  have  been  a 
I'.-nsint  labouring  in  the  fields,  could  be  cast  in  so  fine  a 
mould.  What  was  it  he  had  said?  God  who  made  us 
both?  Almost,  she  thought,  he  might  have  made  them 
of  the  one  lump ! 

There  never  was  a  woman  yet,  not  even  a  possible  saint 
in  the  making,  who  having  looked  thrice  at  a  comely  man 
was  not  willing  to  look  a  fourth  time !  And,  without 
doubt  Marco  Fieravanti  was  not  alone  comely,  but  all 
unconscious  of  his  own  comeliness.  And  the  spirit  of  the 
man?  There,  taking  thought,  she  thrilled  almost  to  a 
little  shiver.  If  he  had  presumed  he  had  been  unconscious 
of  offence,  and  surely  willingness  to  offend  is  the  true  core 
of  offence!  Presumptuous?  In  whose  cause  had  he  pre- 
sumed? Not  in  his  own  but  in  hers. 

What  he  had  urged  with  such  hot  contempt  was  true 
enough,  what  was  Carlo  to  him  that  he  should — meddle; 
that  was  her  own  word  and  now  its  use  vexed  her.  Nor, 
naturally,  was  Lucia  Faldora  anything  to  him.  How 
could  she  be,  seeing  she  was  Faldora  and  he  Fieravanti? 
No;  solely  and  only  it  was  the  woman  he  sought  to  de- 
fend, and  was  it  not  the  part  of  a  fine-souled  man  to  defend 
the  woman  even  at  the  risk  of  being  misunderstood.  De- 
fend her  from  what?  Not  just  from  Carlo,  but — the 
colour  quickened  in  her  cheeks  as  she,  no  child,  guessed 
how  such  as  Carlo  Faldora  passed  his  time  in  Forli,  with 
the  example  of  Ordelaffi  and  Amata  Capponi  before  hia 
eyes.  But  that  he  should  so  pass  his  time  was  not  strange: 
rather — and  the  proud,  sensitive  mouth  curved  in  con- 
tempt— it  was  the  commonplace  in  men  of  his  years  and 
degree :  so  common  that  women — wives — were  wise  to  shut 
their  eyes  and  ears,  especially  when  they  neither  loved  nor 
were  loved.  Then  the  thought  shook  her,  what  manner  of 
man  was  this  who  held  such  ways  so  greatly  in  reprobation 


106  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

that  he  risked  the  loosing  of  her  sharp  tongue  on  his  pre- 
sumption? Peasants  lived  no  cleaner  than  their  betters, 
worse,  rather,  though  with  greater  excuse.  Moved  to  re- 
pentance she  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm  and  at  the 
touch  he  turned. 

"Ser  Marco,  it  was  I  who  was  wrong :  do  not  punish  my 
folly  by  refusing  my  grandfather's  request." 

"It  had  been  better  if  I  had  gone  direct  to  Count  As- 
canio.  Shall  I  do  so  still,  Signorina?" 

"No,"  she  answered  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  her 
colour  rising  as  her  thoughts  once  more  went  back  to 
Carlo  Faldora  and  his  pastimes  in  Forli.  "It  would  make 
no  difference  in  the  end.  I  think,"  she  added  bitterly, 
"that  with  my  grandfather  nothing  counts  but  that  the 
name  shall  live." 

"Nothing?     Truly  nothing?" 

"Nothing,"  she  repeated  with  growing  emphasis  and 
increased  bitterness  as  his  persistence  forced  the  growing 
distaste  for  the  future  more  clearly  upon  her. 

"And  you?  Forgive  me,  Signorina,  but  are  you  not 
most  concerned?" 

"I  ?    Have  I  not  told  you  that  the  name  comes  first." 

"Love  comes  first,"  said  Fieravanti  meaningly.  "Sig- 
norina before  God  and  man,  love  comes  first." 

For  a  moment  the  old  resentment  grew  in  her  eyes  as 
she  faced  him,  but  now  it  was  rooted  in  a  different  soil. 
Did  he  think  she  was  so  little  a  woman  that  love  counted 
for  nothing?  It  was  because  there  was  no  love  that  Carlo 
was — tolerable.  Then  resentment  died;  after  all,  if  he 
was  again  presuming,  was  he  not  presuming  for  her  sake? 
But  that  she  might  not  betray  herself  she  took  refuge 
in  jest. 

"Oh,  there  are  loves  and  loves.  You,  Ser  Marco,  do  not 
you  love  your  saints  as  they  grow  under  your  hand?" 

Following  her  lead  he  laughed.    "True,  even  when  their 


IN  THE  CASA  GAEDEN  107 

saintship  evades  me,  as  one  evades  me  in  Forli  now.  It  is 
a  Magdalene  for  His  Grandeur  whose  mouth  says  Very 
good !  though  his  eyes  protest,  I  am  not  content !  May  I 
tell  you  a  secret  ?  It  is  because  of  the  Magdalene  and  His 
Grandeur's  discontent  that  I  am  in  Brettinoro  at  all ! 
Go  to  Brettinoro,  said  he,  go  to  Count  Ascanio  Faldora 
and — and — find  there  what  you  need  to  make  your  saint 
perfect." 

"Find  it  here?    How?* 

"No  offence,  Signorina — in  you." 

"In  me?  But "  She  broke  off,  laughing:  the  ten- 
sion was  eased,  Carlo  Faldora  forgotten.  "And  have  you 
found  it?" 

With  the  smile  gay  in  her  eyes  she  turned  to  him,  and 
he,  his  own  eyes  smiling  though  the  mouth  was  grave, 
searched  her  face  slowly  for  a  full  minute;  then  he  shook 
his  head. 

"Xo !  Nor  do  I  know,  nor  can  I  guess,  what  is  lacking. 
Not  beauty,"  he  said. 

"No"  she  mocked,  "since  he  sent  you  here  to  find  it, 
whatever  it  is!" 

"Oh,"  he  retorted,  "there  is  beauty  and  beauty  as  there 
are  loves  aud  loves.  Beauty  can  be  imagined,  but  this — 
this  must  be  seen  and  caught  upon  the  chisel." 

"Perhaps  it  is  saintship?  Your  Magdalene  is  still  a 
woman !" 

"And  can  a  woman  not  be  a  saint?*' 

"And  true  woman?  I  doubt  it!  We  are  of  the  earth, 
we  women,  and — is  this  not  your  scarpellino  who  is  com- 

"Yes — 'Tonio,  my  Englishman,"  and  both  fell  silent. 
In  these  last  fifteen  minutes  the  barrier  between  them  had 
gone  down,  and  there  is  this  to  be  said  of  barriers  when 
they  are  built  chiefly  of  pride,  once  down  they  never  again 
brittle  with  repellence  as  at  the  first  Quite  unadmitted 


108  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

by  either,  'Tonio  was  not  so  welcome  as  he  would  have 
been  earlier  when  Carlo  Faldora  was  in  question.  Then, 
seeing  him  hesitate,  she  beckoned. 

"He  has  something  to  say  to  you,  I  think.  May  you 
find  what  is  lacking  in  your  Magdalene,  Ser  Marco;  but 
if  it  be  saintship  do  not  look  to  me  for  help !"  and  with  a 
smiling  acknowledgment  of  Hawk's  respect  she  disap- 
peared down  a  shaded  walk  towards  the  Casa. 

"It's  about  Giro,  signor,  his  head  is  mended,  he  is  here 
every  few  days,  he  and  his  dogs,  snarling  mongrels  as 
ill-conditioned  as  their  master,  and  always  his  business 
is  with  Carlo  Faldora." 

"That  is  natural  since  young  Faldora  acts  for  his  uncle. 
Say  nothing  of  that  missing  finger,  'Tonio:  I  shall  speak 
when  the  time  comes." 


CHAPTER  XI 

FALDORA  DRINKS   A   HEALTH 

"You  on  my  left  as  before,  Ser  Fieravanti,  Messer  An- 
tonio beyond  you.  Father,  a  grace."  Seating  himself 
with  the  Amen  Count  Ascanio  turned  to  the  sculptor. 
"How  soon  before  I  would  break  my  head  against  Arzauo's 
defences — a  year?" 

"Less,  I  hope.  And  the  Duke  has  given  me  full  leave 
to  explain  the  plans  to  you." 

"But  not  to  the  whole  table!  Some  day  Carlo,  here, 
may  have  a  quarrel  with  Arzano,  as  I  had  twenty-nine  years 
ago." 

"And  in  such  a  case  you  would  not  give  Signer  Carlo 
the  benefit  of •" 

"Knowledge  entrusted  to  my  honour?  No,  nor  would 
he  wish  it,"  an  assertion  Fieravanti  took  leave  to  doubt. 
"To-morrow,  when  we  are  alone,  you  shall  tell  me  as  much 
or  as  little  as  you  please." 

"But,  Illustrissimo,  to-morrow  I  must  be  on  the  road 
to  Forli." 

"Having  accomplished  all  you  had  in  your  mind  when 
you  left  the  city?"  said  the  girl,  smiling  at  a  memory. 

"Oh,  Madonna,  there  is  always  something  to  grope  for 
at  the  bottom  of  the  pocket!  Life  without  puzzles  is  a 
rut  and  whoso  lives  in  a  rut  sees  little  of  God's  world.0 

"And  you  find  God's  world  puzzling?" 

"Being  less  wise  than  He — yes!" 

109 


110  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

"Puzzles?"  sweeping  aside  the  intrusion  which  he  did 
not  in  the  least  understand  Count  Ascanio  picked  up  his 
own  thread.  "I  doubt  not  you  found  many  in  Arzano? 
Strange,  but  it  is  through  men  like  you,  no  soldier,  no 
fighter,  that  the  arts  of  war  advance." 

"And  other  arts !"  This  time  it  was  Carlo  Faldora  who 
intruded.  He  was  smiling,  but  it  was  not  a  smile  which 
made  his  handsome  face  the  pleasanter.  "Sculpture,  for 
instance.  Fifty  years  ago  there  was  no  Fieravanti." 

"And  more  than  twenty  times  fifty  years  ago  there  was  a 
Praxiteles.  I  do  not  see  the  advance,"  said  Fieravanti. 

"No  advance,  when  after  a  Praxiteles  there  is  a  Fiera- 
vanti? Perhaps,  then,  it  is  a  reproduction?  The  world 
regaining  a  greatness  lost — how  long  ago,  did  you  say  ?  It 
is  my  belief,  if  Father  Bernardo  will  not  burn  me  as  a 
heretic  for  saying  so,  that  great  souls  never  die.  They 
only  sleep:  Praxiteles — Fieravanti." 

"It  would  be  better,"  answered  Fieravanti  drily,  "if 
some  souls,  not  great,  never  lived  at  all.  The  world  would 
be  the  sweeter  for  the  want  of  them !  That,  Father,  I  hope 
is  no  heresy?" 

"And  safer  as  well  as  sweeter!"  Carlo  Faldora's  smile 
was  even  less  pleasant  as  the  eyes  of  the  two  men  held 
each  other  in  mutual  antagonism  and  distaste  across  the 
table.  "Be  wise  as  well  as  great  and  do  not  forget  the 
safety,  Messer  Fieravanti.  Such  souls  are  best  let  go  their 
own  way — Lippo  for  example." 

Ignoring  the  antagonism,  and  the  malicious  will  to  be 
offensive,  Fieravanti  thought  he  saw  an  opportunity  to 
hint  his  warning,  not,  let  it  be  said,  for  Carlo  Faldora's 
sake. 

"Lippo?  There  are  others  as  well  as  Lippo.  That 
jackal  of  his  for  instance,  whose  head  'Tonio  broke.  The 
loss  of  a  little  finger  from  the  left  hand  marks  him." 

"Oh,  that?"    Carlo  Faldora  was  contemptuously  indif- 


FALDOKA  DRINKS  A  HEALTH        111 

fereni  "So  many  rogues  of  peasants  steal  our  sheep  that 
a  maimed  hand  counts  for  nothing.  Would  you  hang  a 
nun  for  hunger?  Why  our  good  Giro  is  maimed." 

"And  Giro  was  the  name  of  Lippo's  jackal." 

•'Giro?"  Carlo  Faldora  stared  in  angry  challenge  across 
the  table  an  instant,  then  shrugged  his  shoulders  with  a 
laugh.  "Giro  ?"  he  repeated  in  a  new  contempt,  "but  you, 
of  all  men,  should  know  that  among  our  peasants  Giros 
are  as  common  as — as — 'Marcos!" 

"And  your  Giro,"  said  'Tonio,  the  trembling  rage  in 
his  voice  not  over  well  controlled,  "Your  Giro,  I  say,  had 
his  head  in  a  cloth  the  day  after  I  broke  the  skull  of 
Lippo's  jackal." 

"Giro  is  a  faithful  servant ;  let  Giro  be  lest  you  get  your 
own  head  broken,  Messer  Antonio,"  said  Count  Ascanio 
testily.  "Signer  Fieravanti,  now  that  you  are  done  with 
Aranzo  Father  Bernardo  has  a  proposal  to  make  in  the 
way  of  your  trade.  I  say  nothing  but  this,  it  has  my 
sanction." 

"Praxiteles  redivivus,"  murmured  Carlo,  as  if  to  him- 
self. But  though  he  was  again  smiling  his  hand  so  shook 
that  the  wine  he  lifted  to  his  lips  was  slopped  upon  the 
table. 

From  beyond  him  Father  Bernardo  leaned  forward.  All 
through  supper  he  had  been  as  unsettled  in  nerve  as 
Carlo  Faldora  now  showed  himself.  The  request  he  had 
to  make  lay  very  near  his  heart,  and  minute  by  minute  he 
had  seen  consent  grow  less  and  less  probable  because  of 
the  studied  discourtesy  levelled  at  the  sculptor. 

Better  than  any  at  the  table  he  knew  that  Marco  Fiera- 
vanti would  undertake  no  work  he  did  not  find  congenial. 
He  guessed,  too,  that  unless  the  artist  soul  in  the  man 
was  fired  by  the  subject  he  would  reject  the  proposal.  If 
his  enthusiasm  was  unaroused  the  inspiration  which  is 
essential  to  good  work,  and  without  whose  stimulus  the 


112  A  MAKEE  OF  SAINTS 

best  in  the  worker  is  not  stirred  into  action,  would  be 
lacking:  no  spirit  would  breathe  upon  the  dry  bones  of  a 
dull  imagination  and  bid  them  live. 

Nor  had  he  any  great  promise  of  support  to  lend  foice 
to  his  request:  Count  Ascanio  was  indifferent,  the  pro- 
posal, as  he  had  said,  had  his  sanction,  but  beyond  that 
he  would  not  go;  Carlo  Faldora  was  openly,  aggressively 
and  insolently  hostile;  Lucia  had  certainly  persuaded  her 
grandfather  to  grant  his  sanction,  but  without  enthusiasm. 
Yet  now,  before  Father  Bernardo,  trembling  fearful  of  a 
courteous  refusal,  could  put  his  plea  into  words  Lucia 
Faldora  smoothed  the  way  for  him. 

"Ser  Marco,  remember  the  sundial  and  that  all  is  not 
well  with  your  dear  Magdalene." 

"His  dear  Magdalene?'*  Carlo  Faldora  set  down  the 
glass  hastily  as  he  turned  to  the  girl  with  a  fine  pretence  of 
anger.  "What?  Has  he  dared  to  abuse  my  uncle's  hospi- 
tality with  talk  of  Magdalenes,  and  to  you?" 

"Oh,"  she  answered,  "his  Magdalenes  and  yours  are 
not  of  the  one  flesh!  Eemember,  Ser  Marco,  and  think 
before  you  decide." 

"That  was  a  bad  throw,  Signor  Carlo.  You  should 
know  your  dice  better,"  said  Fieravanti,  while  down  the 
table  Anthony  Hawk  laughed  as  young  Faldora  would  have 
laughed  in  a  like  case,  that  is  to  say  with  careful  inso- 
lence. "Signorina,  I  am  never  likely  to  forget.  Now, 
Father,  what  is  your  proposal?" 

"Ser  Marco,  you  know,  no  man  better,  that  one  saint 
makes  many.  What  is  true  of  warm  flesh  and  blood  is  true 
also  of  cold  stone,  and  it  is  our  misfortune  here  in  Bret- 
tinoro " 

"To  be  cursed  with  sinners"  broke  in  Carlo  Faldora. 
"But  will  Lippo,  and  that  fellow  who  owes  your  scarpellino 
thanks,  attend  the  Casa  chapel,  do  you  think?  Spare  us 
the  sermon,  Father,  and  come  to  the  point." 


FALDORA  DRINKS  A  HEALTH        113 

"With  your  courteous  leave,  my  son/'  said  the  priest, 
and  at  the  rebuke  in  the  tone  old  Faldora,  leaning  aslant, 
laid  a  hand  on  his  nephew's  thrust-out  shoulder,  pressing 
him  uncermoniously  backward.  "Briefly,  Ser  Marco,  our 
people  are  cloddish." 

"Peasants,  just  peasants,  mere  Giros  and  Marcos,"  said 
Carlo.  He  had  drunk  more  of  the  produce  of  Giro's  vine- 
yard than  was  quite  wise.  This  time  Count  Ascanio  spoke 
and  spoke  sternly,  roughly  even.  Father  Bernardo  was 
not  alone  God's  priest  but  Faldora's  friend,  nor  was  it 
easy  to  say  which  reckoned  for  most  with  Ascanio  Faldora. 

"Be  silent,  nephew.  You  forget  you  are  as  yet  neither 
Faldora  of  Pesaro  nor  master  in  this  house.  Let  Father 
Bernardo  finish  in  peace." 

"Cloddish,"  went  on  the  priest  as  if  there  had  been  no 
interruption.  But  now  Fieravanti  spoke. 

"I  understand.  But  in  every  clod  there  is  a  seed  of 
growth,  the  germ  of  a  life  to  be." 

"A  life  to  be!"  Father  Bernardo  caught  at  the  words 
eagerly.  In  a  single  phrase  Marco  Fieravanti  had  bettered 
the  argument  he  hoped  to  urge.  "But  being  hid  in  stiff 
clay  the  germ  is  slow  to  stir.  Ser  Marco,  help  us.  Tangle 
their  dull  imaginations  in  the  mesh  of  a  sainfs  beauty 
and  through  the  eyes  stir  the  spirit  to  thought  upwards. 
Sermons?  As  Signer  Carlo  has  so  delicately  hinted,  ser- 
mons are  a  weariness,  and  if  a  weariness  to  so  fine  a  nature 
how  much  more  to  these  dull  souls  after  six  days  of  dawn- 
to-dark  labour  in  the  fields?  They  are  like  little  children, 
my  poor  clods,  and  as  children  learn  by  the  eye,  and 
through  the  eye  awaken  to  thought,  so  will  they.  Help  us, 
Ser  Marco,  help  us.  They  may  not  understand  all  your 
marble  teaches  but,  praise  God,  understanding  is  not  neces- 
sary to  faith ;  so,  I  say  again,  help  us." 

There  was  a  silence.  Below  the  salt  the  low  murmur  of 
talk  had  entirely  ceased  and  all  faces  were  turned  to  the 


114  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

maker  of  saints  who  alone  seemed  unconscious  of  the  eager 
interest  stirred  by  the  priest's  appeal.  Leaning  across  the 
arm  resting  on  the  table  he  met  Father  Bernardo's  part 
passionate,  part  anxious  gaze  with  eyes  too  gravely  full  of 
abstracted  thought  for  sight.  Only  Carlo  Faldora  moved. 
Stretching  a  hand  behind  his  cousin  he  beckoned  to  old 
Giuseppe  to  fill  his  glass,  emptied  it  with  ostentatious 
carelessness  and  replaced  it  noisily  on  the  table.  If  Father 
Bernardo  spoke  from  his  heart  with  such  eloquence  as  he 
possessed  so  also  did  Carlo  Faldora.  It  was  the  sculptor 
who,  turning  to  his  host,  broke  the  silence. 

"You  wish  a  statue  for  the  chapel?" 

"It  is  Father  Bernardo's  thought.  For  me,  I  think  the 
less  these  clods  of  peasants  understand  the  better.  For, 
look  you,  Ser  Marco,  so  long  as  they  are  ignorant  they  are 
God's  sheep,  to  be  herded  as  He  wills,  or,  it  may  be,  as  I 
direct.  But  once  let  them  understand  they  have  a  soul  of 

their  own  and "  He  broke  off  with  a  little  fluttering 

gesture  of  the  hand,  which,  in  its  way,  was  as  eloquent  as 
Carlo's  draught  of  wine.  "Bernardo  thinks  differently. 
Of  course,  you  will  name  your  accustomed  fee,"  and  Fiera- 
vanti  nodded  gravely.  It  gave  him  no  shame  that  he 
should  be  paid  for  his  labour. 

"There  is  much  to  be  considered " 

"Considered!"  interrupted  Carlo.  "You  are  hard  to 
please !  Not  every  day  such  as  you  serves  Faldora  of 
Pesaro." 

"I  serve  God,  not  Faldora  of  Pesaro,"  answered  Fiera- 
vanti.  "Illustrissimo,  are  there  lodgings  to  be  found  in 
the  village?" 

"We  have  room  here  and  to  spare,"  replied  Faldora. 
"Ten  years  hence,  when  the  children  have  come — But  even 
then  there  would  be  room  and  to  spare." 

Again  Fieravanti  nodded.     He  remembered  Tribalda's 


FALDORA  DRINKS  A  HEALTH        115 

boast  on  the  night  of  their  first  arrival — it  would  be  con- 
venient if  there  were  fifty  claimants  for  the  custom  of  the 
Custom  instead  of  two.  But  he  also  remembered  the  sun- 
dial and,  half  unconsciously,  glancing  at  the  girl  read  the 
vexed  distaste  he  once  before  had  caught.  If  there  were 
loves  and  loves  in  the  world  it  was  more  clear  than  ever 
that  Carlo  Faldora  did  not  count  as  one  of  them,  much 
less  as  the  sweetest  and  dearest  of  them  all. 

"You  would  have  us  here  in  the  Casa?  My  thanks, 
Illustrissimo.  But  there  would  be  two  of  us,"  and  Fiera- 
vanti  laid  a  hand  on  his  scarpellino's  arm.  "Madonna, 
would  that  be  convenient — one  or  both  of  us  for  weeks?" 

"Lucia  is  not  the  wife  of  Faldora  of  Pesaro  yet,  nor 
am  I  underground,"  said  her  grandfather  sharply.  "These 
will  come  in  their  time,  but  until  then !!" 

There  was  again  much  eloquence  in  Faldora's  fluttered 
hand.  Now  it  put  the  girl  aside  as  a  cipher  of  no  con- 
sequence, just  as  before  it  had  hinted  that  the  end  of  the 
world  might  come  once  the  clods  of  Brettinoro  knew  their 
souls  were  their  own,  which,  in  his  view,  they  certainly 
were  not:  they  belonged  to  the  Church  just  as  absolutely 
as  their  bodies  in  muscle  and  limb  were  his  possession. 
As  to  Lucia  Faldora,  Fieravanti,  whose  trade  made  him 
a  reader  of  faces,  guessed  that  had  she  spoken  her  thought 
she  would  have  said,  May  both  these  yets  be  far  from  me  1 
As  it  was,  she  being  a  Faldora  in  blood  as  well  aa 
name,  the  gesture  did  not  silence  her  utterly. 

"My  grandfather  has  answered  for  me.  There  is  so 
much  room  to  spare  that  you  need  never  be  reminded  why 
you  are  in  Brettinoro  at  all!" 

"Eh?"  Carlo  pushed  hastily  forward.  "And  why  is 
he  in  Brettinoro  at  all?" 

"Let  us  finish  our  business,"  said  his  uncle  with  the 
same  show  of  vexed  temper  as  when  he  had  intervened  on 


116  A  MAKEE  OF  SAINTS 

Father  Bernardo's  behalf.    "Is  all  arranged?    You  agree?" 
"Your  pardon,  Illustrissimo,  but  there  is  one  thing  more 
— perhaps  a  second.    Your  subject?" 

"Oh,  that?     That  I  leave  to  Father  Bernardo." 

"I  thought  of  Our  Lady"  said  the  priest  hesitatingly. 

"There  at  Castel-Cavo " 

"Yes,  but  Our  Lady  is  not  just  one!  Or  if  one,  then 
with  many  attributes.  Which  is  in  your  mind?  There 
is  Our  Lady  of  Succour,  Our  Lady  of  Pity,  Our  Lady  of 

Sorrows,  Our  Lady  the  Great  Mother " 

Faldora  brought  his  open  hand  down  on  the  table  with 
a  force  that  set  the  glasses  ringing.  "Good — good !  You've 
said  it,  Ser  Marco,  you've  said  it!  Our  Lady  the  Great 
Mother !  Now  I  heartily  agree.  Now  I  begin  to  see  some 
sound  sense  in  it  all,  eh,  Lucia,  eh?" 

Again  there  was  silence:  not  a  soul  at  the  table  but 
understood  and  applied  the  inference.  The  double  line  of 
expectant  faces,  expectant  of  they  knew  not  what  but 
conscious  that  there  was  unrest  in  the  air,  which  had  been 
turned  towards  the  maker  of  saints  now  shifted  gaze  to 
Lucia  Faldora  and  the  man  at  her  side.  They  made  a 
strong  contrast,  these  two.  The  girl,  less  lovely  than 
Fieravanti  had  ever  seen  her,  sat  very  upright  with  noth- 
ing of  the  saint  about  her  compressed  lips,  and  still 
less,  if  that  were  possible,  in  the  defiant  resentment  which 
looked  so  angrily  out  of  her  hard  eyes,  while  Carlo  Faldora, 
sunk  lolling  back  in  his  seat,  smiled  a  broadening  satis- 
fied smile  into  nothingness  on  the  flat  of  the  table.  Fiera- 
vanti, following  the  gaze  of  all,  found  his  unsolved  prob- 
lem grow  acute.  But  suddenly  Count  Ascanio  stretched 
back  his  silver  cup  to  be  filled  by  Giuseppe,  in  wait  behind 
him,  and  for  the  moment  the  gurgle  of  wine  was  the  only 
sound.  Then,  with  the  cup  filled,  he  pushed  himself  to 
his  feet  and  expectancy  grew  yet  more  expectant.  Here 


FALDORA  DRINKS  A  HEALTH        117 

was  something  beyond  the  customary  ritual  of  the  supper- 
table. 

"Signers  all,  with  your  permission  I  shall  give  you  a 
health !  It  is  the  wisdom  of  life  to  look  forward,  not  back. 
Not  always  will  Faldora  of  Pesaro  be  a  barren  stock, 
stripped  almost  to  its  roots.  By  the  grace  of  God  and  Our 
Lady  the  Great  Mother  the  sap  will  yet  flow  as  of  old, 
new  buds  will  push  out  into  leafage  and  through  their 
growth  the  ancient  strength  be  renewed :  there  will  be  young 
voices  in  the  old  halls,  young  feet  on  the  empty  stairs, 

young  life  where "  the  strong  voice  shook  an  instant, 

shook  almost  to  breaking,  but  only  for  an  instant — "young 
life  where  death  has  sat  housed  these  sorrowful  years. 
Signers  all — Lucia,  you  keep  your  place — I  give  you  the 
Faldoras  who  yet  shall  be,  Faldoras  in  name  and  in  blood, 
Faldoras  to  carry  on  the  old  line  through  many  generations 
in  the  old,  unstained  tradition — never  yet  broken — clean 
honour,  simple  faith,  self -reverence  and  the  courage  which 
is  unafraid  to  look  God  or  man  in  the  face." 

He  raised  the  cup  and  at  the  motion  all  stood  from  end 
to  end  of  the  long  table,  save  only  Madonna  Lucia.  That 
her  colour  had  risen  to  the  very  crowning  of  her  hair  was 
no  wonder  considering  the  nature  of  the  ceremony  and 
with  so  many  eyes  turned  curiously  upon  her.  If  she  had 
been  straightly  upright  before  she  was  now  rigid,  stiffened 
to  the  very  lips,  her  breath  coming  in  a  rapid  and  tumul- 
tuous heaving  of  the  bosom. 

Strange  how  a  few  words  can  bring  revelation — not  Fal- 
dora's  words,  they  were  not  altogether  new,  but  those 
spoken  by  the  sundial :  Love  comes  first !  To  the  love-free 
woman,  who  had  given  no  great  thought  to  love,  that  had 
never  seemed  the  truth  which  was  now  clear  to  the  woman 
who  realised  that  one  day  she  might  love  with  a  love  which 
made  little  of  all  save  love,  a  love  which  came  first  to 


118  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

sense  as  well  as  to  spirit,  a  love  which  would  say,  Wifehood 
without  love  is  little  better  than — what?  There  was  once 
a  woman  who  loved  much  and  therefore  much  was  for- 
given her.  Better  the  great  forgiveness  because  of  the 
great  love  than  small  need  for  pardon  because  of  no  love 
at  all ! 

Not  that  love  was  born,  or  even  stirred  before  its  birth. 
No!  But  the  woman  in  the  loveless  flesh  realised  the 
claims  of  her  womanhood  as  never  before  and  so  sat  rigid, 
while  within  touch  of  her  hand  stood  the  man  whom  she 
was  certain  she  did  not  love,  nor  ever  would  or  could. 
So  realising  she  asked  herself  would  there  not  be  as  great 
need  for  much  to  be  forgiven,  and  less  claim  for  the  "Go 
in  peace?"  Love  comes  first. 

And  he?  The  broad  smile  had  broadened,  the  satisfac- 
tion deepened.  Love?  No,  again!  Lucia  Faldora  was 
not  one  to  stir  his  senses.  If  he  could  have  laid  his  grip 
on  the  remnants  of  the  ancient  Faldora  possessions,  still 
large  though  cramped  in  power,  without  the  encumbrance 
she  represented  he  would  greatly  have  desired  the  freedom, 
the  licence.  But  since  that  was  impossible  here  was  a 
hastening  of  the  desired  end,  and,  remembering  Forli,  he 
knew  there  was  urgent  need  the  end  should  come  by  way 
of  the  altar  lest  it  come  by  way  of  an  open  and  shut  door. 
After  the  altar?  Faldora  was  Faldora  and  might  rage, 
letting  loose  a  bitter  tongue,  but  with  time  small  voices 
would  plead  a  way  to  a  grudged  excusal — no !  not  excusal : 
Ascanio  Faldora  would  never  excuse  the  sin  against  the 
honour  of  Faldora,  but  toleration  would  come  and  Ascanio 
Faldora  was  old !  His  Nunc  dimittis  could  not  be  very 
long  postponed.  Small  wonder,  then,  that  Carlo  smiled  as 
he  listened,  swaying  a  little  on  his  feet. 

"A  health !"  repeated  Count  Ascanio,  the  cup  raised  above 
his  head.  "The  Faldoras  who  shall  be!" 

With   the  rest   Fieravanti   had,   naturally,   risen;   but 


FALDORA  DRINKS  A  HEALTH        119 

though  he  held  his  glass  poised  he  did  not  drink.  His 
look  was  that  of  a  man  perplexed.  Then,  with  a  little  nod 
of  the  head  the  uncertainty  passed  and  his  face  lightened 
as  much  as  to  say,  Now  I  comprehend !  Setting  the  wine 
to  his  lips  he  sipped  courteously. 

"To  the  children  of  Signor  Carlo!  But  why  should 
Madonna  Lucia  not  have  joined  in  the  health?*' 

At  that  all  turned  again  to  the  statuary,  and  as  the 
satisfied  smile  faded  from  Carlo  Faldora's  wine-flushed 
face  the  girl  said,  "Grazie,  signor,"  with  a  deliberate  dis- 
tinctness which  must  have  provoked  an  outburst  had  not 
Father  Bernardo  intervened  with  great  haste.  Here  was 
failure  threatening  his  beloved  scheme  just  when  success 
seemed  assured. 

"Our  Lady  the  Great  Mother  be  it!  Nothing  could  be 
better — nothing !  But  did  you  say  there  was  still  a  some- 
thing more  to  be  thought  of?" 

"A  model,"  said  Fieravanti  curtly  as,  some  whispering 
but  most  in  silence,  all  reseated  themselves.  "Where  in 
Brettinoro " 

"Oh,  that  is  simple/'  Lucia's  two  words,  so  spoken,  had 
bitterly  angered  Carlo  Faldora;  now  he  thought  he  saw 
his  way  safely  to  strike  back.  "Our  Lady  the  Great 
Mother!  What  better  than  the  signorina?  In  every 
way  it  would  be  admirable — "the  Great  Mother !  You  take 
my  meaning,  uncle?" 

"Urn?  Lucia  a  model?"  Affronted  pride  was  still  hot 
in  old  Faldora's  eyes,  as  he  sat  considering.  "No!  it  would 
be  unseemly,  it  would — And  yet,  why  not?  Now  I  think 
again  there  is  certainly  a  fitness  since  she  is  most  con- 
cerned. Looks?  Not  yet  a  mother?  Thafs  nothing! 
With  a  child  in  her  arms  every  true  woman  looks  a  mother: 
the  looks  will  grow  with  the  making.  What  do  you  say, 
my  girl?" 

"Surely  that  is  for  Messer  Fieravanti  to  decide?"  she 


120  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

answered  tranquilly  and  Carlo  Faldora's  malice  fell  flat. 
Yet  he  essayed  one  more  stroke. 

"Perhaps  that  too  has  to  be  considered — considered  was 
the  word,  was  it  not?" 

For  a  moment  the  sculptor  made  no  reply  as,  with  the 
passionless  appraisement  of  the  artist,  he  searched  the 
girl's  face.  Father  Bernardo  had  been  right,  unless  the 
subject  fired  his  imagination  he  would  have  none  of  it. 
Then  Lucia  Faldora  raised  her  eyes  to  his,  held  them  a 
moment  and  looked  aside.  Motherhood?  No,  he  read 
nothing  of  holy  motherhood  or  its  hunger,  but,  all  un- 
consciously, there  was  an  appeal  in  the  look.  For  what? 
Nothing  definite,  but  of  all  in  Casa  Faldora  he  alone 
understood.  At  that  the  old  problem  of  the  Castello  in 
Forli  wakened.  If  he  were  to  speak  effectually  he  must 
speak  opportunely;  here  was  a  door  to  opportunity. 

"Certainly  it  must  be  considered,"  he  answered  slowly. 
"If  the  Madonna  will  be  so  gracious  ?  But  I  warn  her  that 
she  will  find  it  tedious " 

"Surely  not  with  Praxiteles!"  said  Carlo  Faldora,  and 
at  his  elbow  the  priest  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief.  Doubt 
had  passed  and  heart's  desire  about  to  come  to  Casa  Fal- 
dora. Please  God,  the  germs  of  life  would  yet  stir  in 
Brettinoro's  stiff  clay. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  CHILDREN   WITH  THE  MOTHER 

OF  the  next  few  days  little  need  be  said.  In  them  Fiera- 
vanti  made  his  peace  with  Count  Ascanio  by  way  of  the 
fortifications  of  Arzano,  winning  an  intimacy  which  was 
frank  and  strong  with  admiration  upon  both  sides.  Not 
the  intimacy  of  friendship  between  equals,  be  it  under- 
stood; no,  Faldora  was  always  Faldora,  but  to  the  guest 
of  the  Casa  Ascanio  Faldora  was  the  courteous  host  who 
discovers  in  a  guest  unsuspected  qualities  which  compel 
esteem;  while  behind  the  proud  and  bitter  heart  which 
Luca  Melone  had  warned  him  of  Fieravanti  found  that 
greatness  of  spirit  which  had  won  His  Grandeur's  praise. 
Here  certainly  was  the  very  perfect  gentleman  and  Grand 
Seigneur  whose  type  must  always  be  the  saving  salt  of  a 
nation. 

Through  these  days,  too,  such  early  arrangements  as 
were  possible  were  made  for  the  hewing  out  of  the  marble. 
A  room  on  the  level  of  the  chapel  was  chosen  as  a  workshop, 
a  room  lit  poorly  enough,  because  of  the  narrowness  of  the 
unglazed  window  set  in  the  yard-thick  wall,  but  whose 
light  varied  little  between  dawn  and  dark.  As  to  the 
marble  itself,  an  ox-cart  would  fetch  the  block  of  Carrara 
from  Forli  and  after  a  necessary  visit  to  the  city  the 
sculptor  would  return  for  the  fulfilment  of  the  commission. 
With  Father  Bernardo  there  were  many  conferences  as  to 
pose  and  position,  but  all  ended  in  Fieravanti  being  left 
entire  freedom  to  carry  out  his  own  conceptions  as  he 
pleased.  Of  the  girl  he  saw  little  and  of  Carlo  Faldora 

121 


122  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

less:  except  upon  occasions  of  formal  necessity  she  rarely 
appeared ;  he,  it  was  understood,  was  occupied  abroad  with 
Giro  who,  through  these  days,  was  seen  no  more  at  the 
Casa. 

"In  fifteen  days  expect  me,"  said  Fieravanti,  as,  with 
'Tonio  already  in  the  saddle,  he  made  ready  to  mount. 
"Illustrissimo  and  Signorina,  for  all  your  courtesy  our 
grateful  thanks.  Father,  the  idea  grows!  If  the  hand 
does  not  fail  the  head  I  think  you  will  be  content.  To 
lighten  the  block  'Tonio  here,  and  his  fellow  sc&rpellino, 
will  hew  it  into  rough  shape  before  it  leaves  Forli.  Count 
Ascanio,  you  are  sure  it  can  be  hoisted  to  the  workroom  ?" 

"Yes,  thank  God!  there  are  still  some  men  left  to  Fal- 
deral" 

"For  Romagna's  sake  would  there  were  more  Faldoras 
and  more  men  to  do  their  bidding.  Madonna,  if  I  hold 
to  my  present  conception  we  shall  need  a  child — but  not 
at  the  first,  that  can  wait.  Captain  Tribalda,  our  horses, 
like  ourselves,  have  cause  to  praise  the  Custom  of  Bretti- 
noro !  Again  our  thanks  to  all !" 

Swinging  into  the  saddle  as  lightly  as  ever  soldier  set 
foot  in  stirrup  he  turned  his  horse,  cap  in  hand,  and  rode 
bareheaded  until  a  curve  hid  the  gateway,  Hawk  following. 
Of  three  watchers  each  made  his  characteristic  comment. 

"A  chiseller!  God  in  Heaven!  What  are  men  coming 
to  that  he  should  waste  himself  on  such  stuff!  But  that's 
his  peasant  blood/' 

"He  rides  well,"  said  Tribalda  "and  with  a  light  hand 
on  the  bridle." 

"God  of  Heaven?"  repeated  the  priest,  "Yes!  It's  my 
belief  He  sent  him  to  Brettinoro." 

As  to  the  girl,  who,  this  being  now  no  chance  guest  of 
the  Custom,  had  also  come  to  speed  him  on  his  way,  she 
was  silent.  But  though  silent  her  thoughts  were  many, 


THE  CHILDREN  WITH  THE  MOTHER     123 

as  is  the  way  with  women ;  conflicting,  too,  as  is  sometimes 
their  way — that  he  was  no  more  than  a  chiseller  was  a 
pity,  but  was  it  good  that  he  had  ever  come  to  Faldora? 
good  for  Brettinoro  because  of  its  cloddishness,  yes;  but 
he  had  vexed  her  peace  and  at  the  last  her  dominant  thought 
was  resentment.  With  peasants  and  their  like  love  might 
come  first  but — here  she  glanced  at  her  grandfather's  eagle 
face,  half  contemptuous  and  sternly  set  in  the  clear,  strong 
light — but  not  at  Faldora,  no,  certainly  not  at  Faldora. 

With  fresh  horses  under  them,  and  a  down-hill  journey 
from  Castel-Cavo  on  the  morrow,  they  rode  briskly,  their 
thoughts  in  the  future  as  the  thoughts  of  virile  men  mostly 
are — the  new  statue  to  be  hewn  for  the  Casa  chapel,  the 
smiths  work  for  the  frame  within  the  clay,  the  block  to  be 
chosen,  the  pose  the  Master  had  in  his  conception,  the 
length  of  time  before  they  would  be  free;  needs  must  that 
their  stay  run  into  weeks,  poor  'Sandro  would  be  lonely 
in  Forli. 

"Bring  him  with  us,  Master,"  urged  'Tonio.  "As  the 
old  Count  said,  there's  room  to  spare;  whafs  a  mouth  there 
more  or  less,  and  we  shall  be  the  quicker  away." 

"Lest  Giro  of  the  cropped  finger  break  your  head?" 

Tonio  patted  his  cudgel,  now  full  in  view  since  there 
was  no  need  for  a  cloak  in  the  May  warmth.  "There  would 
be  two  words  to  that,  signer!  A  fig  for  Giro  and  his 
dogs !  though  I'm  free  to  admit  that  they  are  as  vicious  as 
they  are  ugly.  No,  but  that  'clear  the  road,  cattle*  stuck 
in  my  throat.  Englishmen  have  long  memories." 

"Then  I  had  better  leave  you  at  Forli  and  take  'Sandro 
with  me  instead." 

"No,  master,  no;  for  the  love  of  all  Our  Ladies  put 
together,  not  that !  Bring  'Sandro  too;  as  I  said,  we  shall 
be  the  quicker  away." 

"I  see  no  harm  in  that:  they  will  be  glad  to  be  rid  of 


124  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

us  and  I  want  to  perfect — no,  that  is  not  possible,  but  I 
must  finish  the  Magdalene." 

"Then  you  have  found  out  what  it  was  His  Grandeur 
missed?" 

"No!"  Fieravanti  shook  his  head.  "That  is  still  to 
come." 

"It  will  never  come,"  said  'Tonio  stoutly,  "Never,  and 
for  the  good  reason  that  nothing  is  missing." 

But  the  Master  shook  his  head  again.  He  had  faith  in 
Luca  Melone's  shrewd  clearness  of  vision,  or,  possibly,  it 
was  his  keen  sympathy,  his  warmth  of  heart  which  gave 
him  insight?  More  and  more  Fieravanti  was  coming  to 
believe  that  what  his  Magdalene  lacked  was  of  the  spirit: 
perhaps  he  would  yet  find  it  in  Brettinoro,  but  in  any  case 
His  Grandeur  was  right  when  he  said,  Better  a  month's 
delay  than  a  botched  job.  The  greatest  of  all  workers 
works  slowly  and  with  infinite  patience,  a  too  hot  eager- 
ness to  see  the  end  is  a  vice  of  clay.  A  month?  Already 
the  month,  and  more,  had  passed ;  but  with  so  wise  a  man 
as  Luca  Melone  the  limit  of  time  was  no  more  than  a  figure1 
of  speech. 

It  was  late  for  the  midday  meal  when  they  entered  the 
hamlet  where  they  had  dined. 

"But,"  said  'Tonio  cheerfully,  "they'll  warm  rye  por- 
ridge for  us  and  the  welcome  will  give  it  savour.  And, 
Master,  since  you  need  a  child  for  the  Madonna's  arms 
why  not  choose  that  solemn-eyed  bambina  they  called — I 
forget  her  name!  But  you  remember  how  the  mother 
cuddled — God  of  Mercy !  What  has  come  to  the  poor  folk !" 

Breaking  off,  he  drew  rein  sharply  and  both  sat  staring 
at  the  vile  heap  of  blackened  ruins  lying  piled  where  pov- 
erty had  given  them  of  its  best  not  two  months  before. 
Ruin?  Never  was  nor  could  be  ruin  greater,  never  ruin 
more  sordid  or  complete.  Through  a  tumbled  mass  of 


THE  CHILDREN  WITH  THE  MOTHER    125 

fire-swept  rubble  charred  beams,  tossed  every  way  in  con- 
fusion, thrust  their  splintered  ends  nakedly  to  the  sun.  So 
utter  was  the  destruction,  the  eye  could  trace  no  sign  of 
door  or  window,  while  scarcely  a  course  remained  with  one 
stone  upon  another  to  say  here  ran  a  wall. 

Nor  was  the  wreckage  newborn.  Eain,  no  passing  shower 
but  the  pitiless  raging  of  mountain  storms  through  weeks 
of  exposure,  had  washed  the  burnt  bones  clear  of  the  smaller 
wastage ;  already,  in  the  untiring  repair  of  nature,  through 
the  warmth  of  May  a  faint  shadow  of  greenery  lay  across 
the  sheltered  angles  where  the  dust  of  the  road  had  blown. 

"The  poor  souls,"  said  Hawk  pityingly.  "Oh,  the  poor 

souls ;  what  loss *'  then  his  pity  checked,  stiffening  into 

passion  "Lippo !  Signor,  signer,  do  you  think— can  it  have 

been "  Again  he  checked,  too  choked  to  speak.  It  is 

not  often  men  of  his  race  lose  grip  of  themselves,  but 
when  they  do  their  abandonment  is  complete. 

Making  no  reply  Fieravanti  looked  about  him.  His 
first  thought  had  also  been  of  pity ;  but  even  before  Hawk 
had  cried  "Lippo !"  pity  had  slipped  into  fear,  a  horrible 
dread  lest,  innocently,  but  no  less  surely  for  that,  they 
had  been  the  cause  of  this  irreparable  disaster.  From 
behind  a  bush  upon  the  valley- ward  side  of  the  road  a 
white  face  peered  furtively  and  he  beckoned. 

"Here,  little  son!  See!"  and,  as  once  before  on  that 
very  road,  he  drew  a  coin  from  his  pocket,  "You'll  take 
no  hurt ;  come !"  and  fearfully,  furtively  like  some  timorous 
wild  thing,  the  lad  obeyed,  drawn  by  that  magnet  which 
draws  all  the  world.  It  was  significant  that  he  circled 
round  until  he  had  the  safe  vantage  of  the  houses  in  his 
rear. 

He  was  of  Piero's  age,  as  ragged  but  less  pinched:  the 
fields  gave  at  least  food  for  the  winter.  But  being  of  the 
fields  he  was  less  alert,  heavier  witted,  and  suspicious  of 


126  A  MAKEE  OF  SAINTS 

he  knew  not  what  as  is  the  way  of  the  wilds.  Holding  the 
coin  within  the  hoy's  reach  Fieravanti  waited  until  he 
drew  near,  then  said, 

"You  must  earn  it,  little  son.  That  fire  there,  how 
came  that  about." 

Always  fearfully,  furtively,  the  hoy  glanced  back  across 
his  shoulder.  "I — I  don't  know." 

"Don't  know?    But  you  saw  it  burn?" 

"Yes."  Again  there  was  the  backward  glance.  ecWe 
saw — all  of  us." 

"How  then?     Tell  me." 

From  Fieravanti's  face  his  eyes  shifted  to  the  coin: 
when  he  looked  back  terror  was  clear  in  them,  "Signor, 
I — I — dare  not." 

"Dare  not?    Then  it  was  no  accident ?    Was  it — Lippo?" 

This  time  the  glance  was  at  'Tonio,  as  if  to  ask,  Is  he 
to  be  trusted?  Apparently  what  he  read  in  the  English- 
man's eyes  reassured  him  for  he  nodded,  then  instantly 
looked  behind  in  a  sudden  shivering  rush  of  the  old  terror. 

"Lippo"  repeated  Fieravanti  between  shut  teeth;  then, 
more  gently,  "Tell  us,  little  son.  Of  what  are  you  afraid? 
Of  Lippo?  But  don't  you  see  that  the  wider  Lippo's 
vengeance  is  known  the  better  it  will  please  him?  There 
will  be  the  greater  fear  lest  he  do  the  same  again.  What 
happened?" 

For  a  moment  he  stood  shifting  from  one  naked  foot 
to  another,  his  lips  working  between  I  will  and  I  dare  not, 
as  desire  or  fear  swayed  him;  but  as  he  glanced  behind 
him  for  the  third  time  with  that  terrible  dread  alive  in 
his  eyes,  a  dread  more  eloquent  of  Lippo's  heavy  hand 
than  any  torrent  of  words,  the  door  of  the  hovel  which 
stood  next  the  blackened  ruin  was  opened  and  a  woman 
looked  through.  Pausing,  she  stood  doubtful;  then  as 
she  crossed  the  road  towards  them  Fieravanti  threw  the 


THE  CHILDREN  WITH  THE  MOTHER     127 

lad  the  coin  with,  "Here,  little  son.  Be  easy,  you  have 
done  no  harm."  Snatching  it  up,  he  circled  back  to  the 
covert  of  the  bushes  and  hid,  peering. 

Lifting  his  cap,  as  the  woman  drew  near,  a  courtesy 
which  met  with  no  response,  the  sculptor  pointed  to  the 
rough  heaps  of  fire-scathed  stones  and  charred  beams.  "A 
sorrowful  sight,  mother.  How  came  it?" 

"What  were  you  asking  Marco,  signor?" 

"Marco,  is  he  ?  Why,  I  am  also  Marco.  It  is  a  common 
name  among  us  peasants.  We  are  all,  I  suppose,  called 
after  the  good  saint." 

"A  peasant — you?    Not  one  of  us,  signor." 

"Born  one,  and  with  a  warm  heart  for  my  own.  Have 
no  fear,  mother.  Tell  me,  what  happened?  Was  it 
Lippo's  doing?" 

"Lippo's  doing,"  she  repeated.  A  spasm  shook  her, 
but  whether  fear,  resentment,  hate,  or  the  terror  of  memory 
Fieravanti  could  not  decide.  She  was  older  than  the 
woman  who  had  fed  them,  more  haggard,  more  lined  and 
wrinkled.  After  middle  age  has  passed,  and  to  the  field 
worker  middle  age  comes  early,  the  effect  of  time  is  cumu- 
lative: though  no  more  than  a  few  years  older  than  her 
neighbour  she  already  was  almost  aged. 

Having  said  the  two  words  she  stood  silent,  a  doubt  in 
her  eyes.  As  with  the  boy  so  with  her,  the  question  crying 
for  assurance  was,  Can  you  be  trusted  ?  and,  with  Lippo's 
record  writ  large  behind  her  she  was  more  than  justified. 
Lippo,  be  it  remembered,  was  a  brute  and  a  cruel  devil: 
also,  it  seemed,  he  could  be  pitiless.  Fieravanti  answered 
the  doubt  in  simple,  direct  words. 

"Speak  plainly  and  have  no  fear.  Have  you  ever  heard 
of  Marco  Fieravanti,  a  maker  of  saints — yes;  Our  Lady 
there  in  San  Giovanni  in  Castel-Cavo:  I  am  Marco  Fiert- 
vanti.  Have  no  fear.  What  happened?" 


128  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

She  had  been  standing  a  pace  or  two  away,  now  in  a 
stride  she  laid  a  shaking  hand  on  his  knee. 

"By  God  and  Our  Lady " 

"By  Christ  Himself!"  Bareheaded  Fieravanti  crossed 
himself.  "By  Christ  Himself  I  swear  that  if  Lippo  has 
done  hurt  to  these  poor  souls  then  God  do  the  like  to  me 
and  more  also  if  I  do  not — But  there!  Let  words  be! 
Have  no  fear." 

"Done  hurt?"  Gripping  his  knee  she  shook  him,  her 
dull  eyes  red-rimmed  with  passion.  "I  heard  what  you 
said  to  Marco  and  its  true — he  wants  it  known.  For  why  ? 
Terror's  his  friend  and  God  He  knows  Lippo  has  that 
friend  at  least  in  every  heart  hereabouts."  She  paused, 
choked  by  her  own  vehemence,  then,  with  a  swallow  in  the 
throat,  caught  breath  again. 

"Tell  it  your  own  way,"  said  Fieravanti.  "There  were 
five  who  lived  there,  were  there  not?" 

Following  his  gesture  she  turned.  Her  hand  still  lay  on 
his  knee,  the  fingers  gripping  and  relaxing  and  gripping 
again  as  if,  like  the  boy  Marco,  she,  too,  alternated  between 
I  dare  and  I  dare  not. 

"Aye,  five."  The  bubble  of  her  passion  was  pricked  and 
she  spoke  heavily.  "Margotti,  Brigitta,  Nello,  Luca  and 
little  Maria — God  save  us!  Little  Maria — little  Maria," 
she  ended  in  a  whisper.  She  who  was  childless  and  past 
childbearing  loved  children. 

"And  now?" 

"Dead,  signor;  all  dead — all  dead." 

"God  save  us!"  echoed  'Tonio,  but  on  a  different  note. 
"Dead?  All  dead?  How— why— where " 

"Where?  Here!"  The  clutch  on  Fieravanti's  knee 
tightened  like  the  grip  of  steel  hooks  as  she  nodded  at  the 
charred  heaps  offending  the  clean  brightness  of  the  day. 
"Why?  Because  Lippo  said  they  gave  warning " 

"Warning?"     Fieravanti's  hand  closed  over  hers  in  a 


THE  CHILDREN  WITH  THE  MOTHER     129 

grip  as  close  as  her  own.  "Yes  ?  Mother,  yes ;  gave  warn- 
ing to  whom?" 

"To  two  who  passed "  A  convulsive  grip  of  his 

fingers  startled  her  and  she  turned,  staring.  "Yon?  Oh, 
mj  God,  was  it  you?  You  ate  their  bread  and — there! 
See  for  yourselves." 

"Tell  us,  mother." 

Never  had  'Tonio  heard  the  Master  speak  in  just  such  a 
voice ;  never,  for  that  matter,  had  he  or  any  other  man  seen 
just  such  a  look  on  his  face.  It  was  as  the  deathless 
anguish  of  the  marble  Laocoon  stamped  in  flesh,  but 
through  the  anguish,  dominant  above  the  torture,  a  cold 
passion  broke  more  full  of  vengeance  than  any  vow  cried 
to  heaven.  Reading  the  look  her  own  anger  died  as  sud- 
denly as  it  had  sprung  into  life. 

"They  came  after  dark  seven  weeks  ago,  perhaps  eight. 
There  were  a  dozen  of  them  or  more,  Lippo  himself  lead 
them." 

"Was  there  a  fellow  there  with  a  clout  round  his 
head?"  demanded 'Tonio.  "They  call  him  Giro ;  the  little 
finger  of  his  left  hand  is  cropped." 

"Yes,  signor.     I  saw  him  by — by — the  firelight" 

"They  came  after  dark,"  said  Fieravanti.  "Yes;  what 
happened  ?" 

"Lippo  sat  his  horse  on  the  road,  just  where  you  are, 
and  Giro  did  as  he  bade  him.  Two  travellers  had  eaten 
on  their  way  to  Brettinoro — at  what  house?  Margotti's, 
they  were  told  and — "  Suddenly  the  tears  came  in  a  flood, 
no  quiet  weeping  but  an  open-mouthed  sobbing  as  she 
faced  them.  "I  can't  go  on,  signor.  I  can't,  I  can't — the 
children,  the  little  innocent  Maria  who  ran  in  and  out  of 
my  door  as  if  it  was  her  own !  Every  night  I  hear  them. 
Margotti  had  the  best  of  it;  he  died  fighting,  but  he's 
there — all  the  same  he's  there." 

"The  children?"  said  Fieravanti.    His  ruddy  face  had 


130  A  MAKEE  OF  SAINTS 

gone  white  and  he  was  breathing  hard.  "What  of  the 
mother  and  the  children?" 

"There,  signor,"  she  quavered.  "They  shut  the  door  on 
them  and — and — they're  there!  Oh,  God  be  good  to  us, 
God  be  good  to  us,  ask  me  no  more.  It  was  His  mercy 
when  the  roof  fell  in  on  them,  but  I  can't  sleep  o'  nights 
for  thinking." 

"Amen  to  His  mercy!  But  as  to  tnis  Lippo — May  he 
do  so  to  me  and  more  also  if  Lippo  does  not  pay  to  the  full. 
But,  mother,"  there  were  tears  on  his  own  cheeks  as  he 
spoke ;  as  for  Hawk,  that  demonstration  which  is  so  seldom 
let  loose  in  men  of  his  race  was  having  free  course  un- 
ashamed. "But,  mother,  why  are  they  there  still  ?  Surely 
— surely " 

"Why?  Because — let  them  bide,  said  Lippo,  bide  as  a 
warning.  Whoso  stirs  them  goes  by  the  same  road,  and 
he  swore  his  oath  to  it." 

"But  it  is  an  offence  to  heaven " 

"Heaven's  far  off  and  Lippo's  near,"  she  answered. 
"There  was  once  a  time,  yes,  but  that  was  before  my 
day  and  when  we  were  Faldora'«  folk" 

"And  now?" 

"All  I  know  is  we  pay  taxes — for  that!"  she  added  with 
bitter  irony  as  she  turned  and  stared  at  the  blackened 
stones. 

"Hold  my  horse,  mother."  Dismounting,  Fieravanti 
crossed  the  road  and  on  the  verge  of  the  charnel  wreck 
stood  cap  in  hand  as  in  a  church,  or  by  the  edge  of  an 
open  grave.  Presently  there  was  a  touch  on  his  elbow  and 
he  found  Hawk  at  his  side.  The  Englishman's  fair  skin 
had  gone  grey,  all  the  weather-bitten  health  wiped  from  it. 

"My  fault,"  he  whispered.  "You  bade  me  keep  silence 
and — and — more  than  once  I  spoke  without  thought.  God 
give  me  a  grip  of  his  throat,  thaf  s  all  I  ask !" 

"The  fault  of  a  greater  than  you,"  answered  Fieravanti. 


THE  CHILDREN  WITH  THE  MOTHER     131 

"No  Lippo  nor  any  such  damnable  work  should  be  possible. 
Take  comfort,  Tonio;  sooner  or  later  that  devil-brute 
would  have  heard.  Besides,  what  is  past  is  done  with, 
except  to  point  a  road  for  the  future.  For  that,  God  help 
us  both!" 

Bowing,  he  was  silent  with  closed  eyes;  but  his  lips 
moved  and  who  can  tell  but  the  prayer  was  consecration 
enough.  Yes,  and  more  than  enough:  it  is  our  dead  who 
consecrate  God's  earth,  not  the  earth  our  dead:  no!  not 
even  though  there  be  a  marching  of  the  boundaries  and  an 
asperging  in  all  the  solemn  glory  of  the  Church's  cere- 
monials. It  is  to  be  feared  that  Anthony  Hawk,  at  his 
side,  prayed  with  the  darker  side  of  his  soul;  he  was  very 
bitter  of  spirit,  and  if  curses  flew  to  their  target  more 
than  Lippo  would  have  had  a  swift  and  troubled  end. 

"  'Sandro  ?"  said  Fieravanti  when  at  last  they  returned 
to  where  the  woman  waited,  dry-eyed  now  and  dull  of 
countenance  with  all  the  cloddishness  of  Brettinoro,  "Yes, 
I  think  we  shall  bring  'Sandro  back  with  us.  A  good  lad, 
'Sandro;  he  can  use  more  than  a  chisel  and  hammer  at 
times."  Mounting,  he  filled  the  woman's  palm  with 
silver.  "That's  an  earnest,  mother.  Take  my  advice,  for- 
get you  ever  saw  us.  If  need  be,  threaten  Marco  with  that 
across  the  road  there  if  he  talks,"  and  with  a  last  backward 
glance  at  the  grim  blackness  of  Lippo's  warning  they  rode 
on. 

That  night  they  lay  at  Castel-Cavo,  but  for  reasons  best 
known  to  himself  the  maker  of  saints  paid  no  visit  to  the 
shrine  of  Our  Lady  of  Mercy. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

COLD  MARBLE  AND  WARM  BLOOD 

IN  the  saddle  betimes,  and  riding  quickly,  the  morning 
was  still  young  when  the  travellers  reached  their  old 
lodgings  of  the  Aquila  Nera.  Finding  the  door  wide  Fiera- 
vanti  drew  rein  and,  stooping  forward,  glanced  within. 
Sure  enough,  there  was  the  broad  bulk  of  the  little  mother 
busied  here  and  there,  a  shadow  among  shadows. 

"Ho !  There !  Aquila  Nera !"  he  called  and  she  came 
to  the  door,  blinking  perhaps  at  the  sudden  brightness, 
perhaps  at  the  memory  of  a  villain  goat. 

"Oh,  so  it's  you!  Good-day,  signors  both.  We  have 
looked  for  you  these  weeks  past.  And  did  you  go  by  the 
lower  road?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Fieravanti  shortly,  "and  fell  among 
thieves.  God's  curse  on  that  scoundrel,  Lippo;  I  will  be 
even  with  him  one  day  yet." 

"Even  with  him?"  she  repeated,  her  broad,  comely  face 
grave  with  thought.  Had  Lippo  played  them  false  after 
all,  reaping  where  they  had  sown  and  yet  cheating  them 
of  their  dues?  Bluntly  she  put  the  question.  "Did  he 
rob  you  then?" 

"He  might  have,  but  for  'Tonio  here.  No!  But  there 
are  five  dead  on  the  hills  behind  there,  dead  in  damned 
cruelty,  all  because  of  a  word  of  warning." 

"So  that  was  it?:>  she  said,  nodding  slowly.  "We  heard 
of — of — the  burning,  but  not  the  why.  Um — dead,  are 
they  ?  Lippo's  ill  to  handle  except  with  gloves." 

"Please  God  we'll  mishandle  him  yet,  and  with  naked 
fists." 

132 


COLD  MARBLE  AND  WARM  BLOOD       133 

'Toil,  signer  ?"  At  the  hard  sternness,  so  foreign  from 
the  man,  the  gravity  deepened  in  her  eyes.  "But  you  are 
bound  for  Forli,  are  you  not?" 

"To-day,  yes;  but  before  June  we  shall  be  back  in 
Brettinoro  and  then — But  there's  no  good  talking  of  it" 

There  the  little  mother  differed.  "You  know  our  wine 
of  old,  come  in,  signers  both,  and  try  it  again." 

"Not  to-day.    Forli's  far  off— 

"Far  off?  Forli?  And  it  all  the  way  downhill?  It's 
nought  of  a  ride,  signers,  nought  of  a  ride:  you'll  be  in 
Forli  hours  before  sunset  Come  in  for  old  kindness* 
sake/'  she  urged. 

"Not  to-day."  Fieravanti  was  firm.  Somehow  it  stuck 
in  his  memory  that  the  road  to  Castel-Cavo  had  been  longer 
in  Vaga's  imagination  than  in  reality ;  that  to  Forli  might 
well  be  reversed,  to  the  profit  of  the  Aquila  Nera.  "These 
villain  goats,  have  they  strayed  since  we  were  here  two 
months  ago?" 

"The  goats  ?"  For  a  moment  she  was  taken  aback,  then 
laughed  cheerfully.  "Twice  or  thrice,  signer,  twice  or 
thrice:  but  they  have  their  uses,  these  goats!"  and  she 
was  still  laughing  when  the  two  rode  on. 

But  the  laugh  died  and,  one  huge,  half -naked  arm 
propped  against  a  door-post,  she  stood  looking  into  vacancy 
with  depth  of  thought.  Which  way  lay  wisdom — that  is 
to  say,  profit?  To  warn  Lippo  that  there  might  be  a 
harrying  of  his  wasp's  nest,  or  to  let  the  harriers  go  their 
own  way  in  quietness?  If  she  was  any  judge  of  a  man's 
face  the  harrying  would  be  thorough:  there  would  be  an 
end  to  Lippo.  An  end  to  Lippo?  That  meant  an  end  to 
the  wandering  of  goats,  and  less  to  go  under  the  hearth- 
stone for  little  Gian. 

That  was  bad,  but  there  was  a  possible  worse.  Rumours 
of  five  dead  had  travelled  down  from  the  Brettinoro  road ; 
what  if  Lippo,  unwarned  of  the  threatened  Harrying,  came 


134  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

to  know  of  her  knowledge  and  her  silence?  "Mother  of 
Mercy!"  she  muttered  as  she  shivered  with  an  intake  of 
the  breath.  In  that  case  little  Gian  would  never  handle 
what  lay  under  the  hearthstone.  There  would  be  an  end 
to  the  Black  Eagle  and  its  brood,  and  the  Black  Eagle  was 
no  red  Phoenix  to  rise  anew  out  of  fire ! 

But  if  she  warned  him  and  the  warning  saved  him? 
Her  comely  face  brightened  at  the  thought,  only  to  cloud 
afresh.  Could  it  save  him?  Let  the  countryside  once  be 
roused — and  yet,  who  was  this  maker  of  saints  to  rouse  the 
countryside?  Pest  upon  the  man !  Why  could  he  not  have 
come  in  and  babbled  over  his  wine  ?  If  she  knew  anything 
of  a  man  and  a  woman  she  could  have  had  his  plans  out  of 
him  as  clean  as  an  empty  pocket  and  he  never  know  it! 
Then  she  could  have  judged  whether  to  warn  or  not  warn 
Lippo  was  best;  now — • — 

Yes,  what  now  ?  Lippo  was — oh,  a  pest  upon  Lippo  too ! 
Lippo  went  too  far.  Five  dead,  and  all  for  loss  of  a  purse 
which  might  or  might  not  have  been  full :  certainly  Lippo 
went  too  far.  In  the  end  she  decided  to  wait  for  the  re- 
turn from  Forli.  She  might  pick  his  brains  then  and  it 
would  be  time  enough:  wasps'  nests,  such  nests  as  Lippos 
build,  cannot  be  harried  with  bare  fists,  not  by  men  of 
sense,  and  she  did  not  judge  this  maker  of  saints  to  be  a 
fool.  Preparation  meant  waste  of  time  in  Brettinoro  and 
Lippo  could  be  warned.  Placidly  and  well  content  she 
went  back  to  her  cooking-pot. 

If  Fieravanti  had  received  many  greetings  as  he  rode 
out  in  the  early  March  morning  there  were  yet  more  to 
welcome  his  return  when  he  passed  the  gates  with  the 
sun  still  high.  That  these  were  chiefly  from  humble  folk 
did  not  lessen  their  sweetness,  increased  it,  rather,  and 
rightly.  He  who  can  touch  the  heart  of  the  poor  and  hold 
their  love  is  the  true  king  of  men,  let  who  may  wear  the 
crown.  And  this  love  the  maker  of  saints  held  so  securely 


COLD  MARBLE  AND  WARM  BLOOD       135' 

that  a  crusade  cried  against  Lippo  would  have  met  with  an 
instant  response  but  for  Ordelaffi's  guards.  Not  for  his 
own  life's  sake  would  Girolamo  Ordelaffi  dare  permit  the 
people  to  arm  at  their  pleasure,  whether  against  Lippo  or 
any  other,  lest,  having  sensed  their  power,  they  turn  these 
arms  against  himself. 

But  many  heads  were  bared,  and  here  and  there  not  a 
little  clamouring  arose,  as  the  sculptor,  "Tonio  following, 
passed  along  the  narrow,  crowded  streets  to  his  workshop 
in  the  Via  dell'  Agnello  where  they  found  'Sandro,  all 
unconscious  of  their  coming,  disconsolately  polishing  the 
lions  for  the  San  Agostino  pulpit.  The  roughing-out  had 
been  done  in  a  week,  and  to  keep  his  heart  comforted  he 
had  finished  the  job  after  his  own  fashion :  at  the  worst  it 
would  be  but  the  spoiling  of  so  much  marble — God,  He 
knows,  a  small  price  to  pay  for  ease  of  spirit  through  two 
weary  months.  But,  let  it  be  said,  there  was  no  such  spoil- 
ing. To  this  day  'Sandro's  lions,  couched  but  with  heads 
erect,  look  down  the  dim  nave  of  the  ancient  church  with 
their  own  dumb  message  of  courage,  strength  and  alert 
guardianship  for  whoso  has  the  wit  to  understand. 

How  'Sandro  met  the  Master  and  the  Master  him  may  be 
left  to  the  imagination.  'Tonio  standing  by,  sneered  in 
secret  at  his  fellow  scarpellino  as  a  slobbering  fool  because 
he  kissed  the  Master's  hand  with  more  fervour  than  he 
would  have  kissed  Pope  Clement's,  and  all  the  while  en- 
vied him  because  he  could  so  let  his  heart  out  of  his  breast 
to  sj»eak  for  itself:  then,  vexedly,  told  himself  it  was 
natural  that  the  Master  should  love  a  man  of  his  own  race 
best,  till  Fieravanti,  reading  the  signs  with  shrewd  eyes, 
took  him  by  the  arm  and  of  the  two  made  three. 

"He  will  never  tell  you,  so  I  must.  But  for  him  there 
iniirlit  be  no  Marco  Fieravanti  alive  to-day.  Up  there  in 
the  hills  he  risked  his  life  for  mine,"  whereat  'Sandro,  in- 
stead of  giving  thanks,  looked  as  if,  in  hia  opinion,  the 


136  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

risking  should  have  heen  the  giving  outright.  In  his 
jealous  love  he  would  have  been  more  grateful  to  'Tonio 
dead  than,  at  the  moment,  he  was  to  'Tonio  living. 

It  was  then  that  the  Agostino  lions  came  in  for  the  praise 
due  to  their  maker,  and  with  'Tonio  joining  in  whole- 
heartedly all  three  were  good  friends  as  of  old :  'Sandro's 
skill  as  a  workman  waked  no  jealousy  in  Anthony  Hawk. 

Because  of  his  many  welcomes  Fieravanti's  return  to 
Forli  could  not  be  hid.  Naturally,  having  his  spies  in 
every  street,  Girolamo  Ordelaffi  at  the  Castello  was  one  of 
the  first  to  hear  the  news,  with  the  consequence  that  before 
noon  of  the  next  day  Amata  Capponi's  litter  was  set  down 
before  the  workshop  in  the  Street  of  the  little  Lamb. 

This  time  there  was  no  such  exuberance  as  had  wel- 
comed Luca  Melone.  But  if  Forli  was  not  roaring  itself 
hoarse,  neither  did  it  rip  up  the  cobbles  it  would  have  flung 
at  a  bishop  who  had  earned  its  full-blooded  hate.  There 
was  reason  in  the  restraint.  The  Church  did  not  strike 
back  as  Girolamo  Ordelaffi  would  have  struck,  so  the  crowd 
— in  Forli  one  has  but  to  hold  up  a  wet  finger  to  see  how 
the  wind  blows  to  draw  a  crowd — stood  lowering  in  sullen 
silence,  or  at  most  cursed  under  its  breath  the  woman  for 
whose  pleasuring  it  was  ground  to  the  dust~->.  ith  taxes. 

The  Church  ?  To  Forli  the  arm  of  flesh  with  a  rope  in 
one  mailed  fist  and  a  pike  in  the  other  counted  for  more 
than  all  the  Church's  anathemas.  So  it  lowered  and  glow- 
ered but  discreetly  left  the  cobbles  where  the  pavior's 
hammer  had  driven  them,  and  Amata  Capponi,  gayer  than 
any  parrot  in  the  red  silken  gown  which  she  knew  became 
so  well  her  dark  beauty,  looked  back  the  glowering  inso- 
lently from  under  her  black  brows.  Well  she  knew  the 
wild  beast  which  lurks  hidden  in  every  mob  was  flexing 
its  claws  in  itching  secret  and,  being  a  woman  of  courage, 
abated  her  insolence  not  one  fraction  of  a  jot  for  the  knowl- 
edge. 


COLD  MARBLE  AND  WARM  BLOOD       137 

Nor,  being  naturally  wanton  as  well  as  no  coward,  did 
It  content  her  to  look  her  insolence.  No,  she  must  needs 
flaunt  it,  leaning  on  Ordelaffi's  page,  who  had  walked  by 
her  litter's  side  from  the  Castello,  in  such  a  way  that  the 
loose-cut  robe  slipped  its  sleeves  to  the  shoulder,  leaving 
the  rounded,  shapely  arms  bare  for  all  to  see.  Why  not? 
June  was  hot  in  the  narrow  streets  and  the  flaming  red 
which  set  off  her  colouring  made  the  warm  air  no  cooler: 
a  wonderful  robe  it  was,  loose-sleeved  but  fitting  close  to 
the  bust  she  knew  to  be  so  admirably  moulded,  and  yet 
so  thin  in  texture  that  the  silk  was  so  like  a  second  skin 
as  hardly  to  be  decent.  Again,  why  not?  Was  she  not 
going  to  cajole  Marco  Fieravanti?  Fieravanti,  who  took 
women  as  God  made  them  and  shaped  saints  from  his 
imagination  of  what  they  were?  Surely  the  less  the 
imagination  and  the  more  the  reality  the  truer  the  marble 
would  be,  to  the  woman  if  not  to  the  saint?  So  argued 
Amata  Capponi,  who  had  not  forgotten  her  two-months'- 
old  rebuff  on  the  night  of  the  dice-cogging. 

By  the  time  she  was  clear  of  the  litter  'Sandro  had 
opened  the  door.  It  was  just  as  well  it  was  not  'Tonio 
who  gave  the  service :  of  the  two  scarpellini  the  Italian  was 
the  more  supple  minded.  Anthony  Hawk  might  have 
answered  her  insolence — for  she  was  still  insolent — accord- 
ing to  its  quality;  'Sandro  was  more  politic! 

"Your  Master,  is  he  within?  Yes?  Then  lead  the  way 
—In  his  workshop  is  he?  So  much  the  better.  It  is 
there  I  wished  to  find  him." 

And  there,  presently,  they  found  him  much  as  His 
Grandeur  had  two  months  before,  pressing  the  lever  which 
sent  the  Magdalene  circling  on  her  turntable.  But  not  as 
the  Church  had  entered  in  the  person  of  Luca  Melone  en- 
tered Amata  Capponi.  Brushing  'Sandro  aside  with  her 
accustomed  arrogant  impatience  she  swept  past  him  like 
the  tempest-driven  flame  she  looked. 


138  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

"Ser  Marco,  Ser  Marco,  where  have  you  hidden  yourself 
these  two  months?  Is  this  the  famous  Magdalene?  Phit! 
she's  stone  cold !  Where's  her  hint  of  dalliance  ?  Where's 
her  enticement?  Where's  her  allure?  By  the  other  Mary! 
I  see  none!  The  Magdalene?  Why,  she's  an  ice-block 
and  no  true  woman,  much  less  that  other !  I  thought  you 
knew  us  better?  To  win  men,  my  friend,  one  must  warm 
their  blood." 

"To  win  them  for  hell;  yes,  perhaps,  though  of  that  I 
know  nothing,"  answered  Fieravanti,  easing  the  pressure 
upon  the  lever  as  he  spoke. 

"No?" 

The  curt  word  was  an  insolence.  From  the  marble  she 
turned  and  looked  him  up  and  down  as  once  before  in 
the  Castello.  Her  verdict  then  had  been  that  he  was  the 
handsomest  man  in  the  thronged  room  with  its  dazzled 
confusion  from  a  hundred  lamps;  seen  now,  in  the  warm, 
clear  daylight,  she  found  no  reason  to  change  her  opinion. 
Curiosity  had  partly  drawn  her  to  his  workshop,  partly 
idleness,  partly  the  desire  for  some  new  sensation:  now, 
looking  him  up  and  down  as  he  faced  her  in  his  grey 
linen  gaberdine,  idle  curiosity  hardened  into  a  definite  pur- 
pose. If  Girolamo  were  jealous  let  him  be  jealous ;  always 
she  had  her  way  with  Girolamo,  why  not  now? 

"And  yet,  by  your  looks  you  should  have  good  blood  to 
warm.  Ser  Marco,  I  bring  you  a  commission " 

"Signora,  my  hands  are  full.  Already  I  have  prom- 
ised  " 

"Then  unpromise!  A  promise?  Phit!  Promises  only 
hold  good  until  something  better  comes  our  way.  And 
I  bring  you !  Saints  ?  Leave  making  saints  for  once  and 
give  the  world — a  Venus!"  She  laughed  consciously  as 
she  half  checked  herself  at  the  last  words,  the  sweeping 
gesture  of  her  arms,  white  and  warm  in  their  loose  sleeves, 
pointing  the  goddess.  Nor  did  Fieravanti  fence. 


COLD  MARBLE  AND  WARM  BLOOD       139 

"Signora,  you  are  too  tall.  By  convention  in  our  Italy 
Venus  is  small-limbed." 

"Convention?"  she  scoffed.  "What  have  I  to  do  with 
convention  ?  Too  tall  ?  No,  so  much  the  better  if  one  is 
a  goddess  every  inch.  Shall  I  make  a  Venus  fit  for  Olym- 
pus, Ser  Marco?" 

Again  there  came  the  gesture  as  she  smiled  into  his 
eyes,  her  own  lit  with  broadening  triumph.  Amata  Cap- 
poni  had  no  intention  of  failing  in  the  allure  she  missed 
from  the  Magdalene. 

"But,  signora,"  answered  Fieravanti,  smiling  back,  "how 
can  I  be  here  and  in  Faldora  at  the  one  time?" 

"Faldora?"  she  stiffened  in  displeasure  at  the  hinted 
difficulty.  Hitherto,  since  grown  a  woman,  to  say  I  will 
had  been  reason  sufficient  and  an  end  to  difficulties.  "What 
have  I  to  do  with  Faldora  ?" 

"Nothing:  but  I  have  promised  Count  Ascanio  a  Ma- 
donna for  the  Faldora  chapel." 

"Then  unpromise — unpromise,"  she  retorted.  "I  am 
sick  to  death  of  your  cold  saints." 

"Signora,  to  my  sorrow" — which  was  more  politic  and 
courteous  than  true — "my  word  is  passed.  Already  the 
marble  is  being  made  ready  for  transmission " 

"The  marble,  yes!  But  before  the  marble  comes  the 
clay.  If  you  must  hold  to  your  word — though  I  see  no 
need — here's  a  model  for  your  clay — here !"  For  the  third 
time  she  stretched  her  arms  in  that  enticement,  that  dalli- 
ance, which  in  her  eyes  the  Magdalene  lacked.  True,  the 
attitude  was  hardly  that  of  a  Madonna;  but  as  she  had 
said,  What  had  she  to  do  with  convention!  Besides,  she 
and  the  Madonna,  were  they  not  both  alike  women? 

"Impossible,  Signora.    Already  the  model  is  chosen " 

"Who?"  Black  browed  in  very  truth  she  almost  spat 
the  word  at  him. 

"The  Signorina  Faldora." 


140  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

"Faldora  ?"  Intent  on  her  own  purpose  it  was  only  now 
that  a  chord  of  memory  stirred  at  the  repetition  of  the 
name.  "Faldora!  Oh  yes!"  and  she  laughed.  "Sister, 

no  doubt,  to  that "  But  even  in  her  vexed  passion  she 

remembered  Ordelaffi's  strict  orders  and  looked  back  to- 
wards the  door.  But  they  were  alone,  'Sandro  had  dis- 
creetly shut  himself  without.  "That  false  dicer  ?  A  sweet 
Madonna,  by  my  word,  a  very  sweet  Madonna.  No  doubt 
they  made  a  pair!" 

"No  sister:  a  far-off  cousin,  nothing  more."  Uncon- 
sciously Fieravanti  spoke  curtly,  anger  sharpening  his 
voice  for  the  first  time,  so  that  for  a  moment  she  stood 
silent,  then  again  broke  into  a  laugh.  Now,  the  Amata 
Capponis  of  this  world  do  not  always  laugh  pleasantly. 

"No  sister:  a  far-off  cousin!"  she  mocked.  "And  that 
does  not  please  you !  But  nothing  more !  Nothing  more 
as  yet?  Oh,  I  have  it;  your  country  wench  is  to  marry 
this  cogger  of  dice,  and  that  does  not  please  you  either? 
Is  she  more  fit  to  be  a  saint  of  your  making?" 

"She  is,  I  think,  fit  to  be  Our  Lady  the  Great  Mother." 

"The  mother  to  the  children  of  a  cogger  of  dice!  Ser 
Marco,  I  challenge  you.  Side  by  side,  which  would  you 
choose,  her  or  me?  Your  country  wench  of  a  Faldora  or 
Amata  Capponi?" 

With  something  more  than  challenge  she  met  and  held 
his  eyes.  Girolamo  Ordelaffi  was  no  green  boy  to  be  swept 
from  his  feet  by  the  first  pretty  face  that  smiled  upon  him, 
and  from  more  lips  than  Ordelam's  she  knew  that  in  Forli 
her  warm  beauty  had  no  rival.  Therefore  there  was  an 
arrogant  assumption,  an  audacious  assurance  of  triumph 
in  the  challenge,  an  insolence,  a  contemptuous  scorn  of 
this  unknown  Faldora  with  whom,  for  her  own  set  purpose, 
she  deigned  to  compare  herself. 


CHAPTER  XTV 

A    CHOICE    OF    MODELS 

VERY  gravely,  like  a  man  who,  seriously  asked  a  doubt- 
ful question,  seriously  desires  to  answer  it,  the  maker  of 
saints  accepted  the  challenge.  And  the  forced  comparison 
bore  unexpected  fruit.  For  the  first  time  the  man  in  him, 
not  the  maker  of  saints  but  the  man  of  warm  blood  Amata 
Capponi  had  called  him,  took  a  man's  thought  of  the 
woman  who  was  Lucia  Faldora ;  thought  not  of  Luca  Me- 
lone's  possible  saint  in  the  making,  thought  not  of  the 
Madonna  who  was  the  Great  Mother,  but  simple  thought 
of  the  woman  who  was  as  God  and  her  own  thoughts  made 
her.  And  since  it  is  inevitable  that  for  such  a  purpose  the 
mind  seizes  upon  one  clear-cut  picture  which  is  the  essen- 
tial self  to  be  mirrored  in  the  thought,  Fieravanti  recalled 
a  garden  chequered  with  light  and  shade,  an  open  stretch 
of  smooth  grass  and  an  ancient  sundial  by  which  stood  a 
woman  in  cool  lawn,  her  hand  on  his  arm,  a  frank  appeal 
in  her  eyes  as  she  confessed  her  pride  had  wronged  him. 
That,  surely,  was  Lucia  Faldora.  the  woman. 

Comparison?  There  was  none:  contrast,  yes,  but  no 
comparison.  As  well  say,  compare  the  lily  of  the  Annunci- 
ation with  a  flaunting  poppy;  or  snow,  new  fallen,  with  a 
flaming  fire  which  smokes  as  it  flames.  Not  that  Lucia 
Faldora  was  cold  as  snow.  No ;  there  was  latent  fire ;  more 
than  once  he  had  felt  the  heat  which,  by  a  paradox,  is 
found  in  the  very  heart  of  the  snowdrift.  Courageous, 
clear-sighted,  generous  to  self-sacrifice,  pure  as  snow  yet 

141 


142  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

warm  at  the  heart;  truly  that  was  a  woman  worthy  to  be 
Our  Lady  the  Great  Mother.  Could  any  man  desire  more 
for  the  blessing  of  life?  Yes — Love?  Perhaps  his  grave 
eyes  softened  at  the  flashed  thought  for,  misreading  the 
sign,  Amata  Capponi  cried  out  in  her  exultation: 

"I  knew  it!  Oh,  we  shall  be  circumspect,  we  two:  no 
Eve  to  a  man's  Adam,  no  Venus,  lest  Ordelaffi  grow  ill- 
tempered,  but  a  goddess  none  the  less.  You  choose  me, 
my  Marco,  you  choose  me !" 

"For  a  Venus,  signora,  yes;  or  a  Phryne,  a  Thai's.  For 
any  of  these,  yes,  without  a  doubt;  but  for  the  Mother  of 
God— No!" 

Fieravanti,  feeling  strongly,  spoke  more  strongly,  more 
decisively  than  he  knew.  Almost  there  was  at  the  last  an 
antagonism,  a  censure,  and  again  she  stiffened  in  vexed 
offence. 

"No?  Who  your  Thai's  or  your  Phryne  may  be  I  do  not 
know,  but  what  I  want  I  shall  have.  Motherhood?  Is  it 
that  you  doubt  ?  Oh,  though  I  am  no  milk-maid  like  your 
Faldora  I'll  show  you  I  can  play  the  part.  Call  Luigi." 

And  Fieravanti,  not  knowing  who  Luigi  might  be  but 
thinking  it  easier  to  comply  with  her  order  than  combat 
her  vexed  spleen,  did  as  she  bade  him.  It  was  the  page 
who  answered. 

'•'Bring  me  some  ragged  brat  of  the  streets,"  she  com- 
manded. "The  raggeder  the  better.  Say  it  is  I,  Amata 
Capponi,  who  have  need  for  her  for  five  minutes.  Wait, 
Ser  Marco,  wait"  she  went  on  as  Luigi  disappeared,  won- 
dering what  new  freak  was  on  foot;  Amata  Capponi  had 
little  in  common  with  rags  that  went  hungry  in  the  streets. 
"You  know  little  of  women  if  you  think  we  cannot  look 
a  meek  and  whited  tenderness  when  there  is  a  gain  to  be 
won ;  but,  by  Holy  Paul !  as  Girolamo  says,  it  must  be 
worth  the  winning." 

"And,  signora,  is  this  worth  while?" 


A  CHOICE  OF  MODELS  143 

"Yes,  since  it  pleases  me.  Do  you  not  know  that  there 
is  nothing  so  good  in  life  as  the  whim  of  the  moment? 
This  Faldora  girl,  describe  her.  Is  she  like  that  far-off 
cousin  we  know  of?" 

"No,  thank  God!" 

"Yet  he  was  pretty  enough  to  look  at — What,  Luigi  ?  Is 
there  no  brat  in  sight  ?  Then  go  hunt  one !  Hasten,  lest 
you  taste  the  whip  on  your  shoulders — not  for  the  first 
time." 

"Children  in  plenty,  Illustrissima,  but "     The  lad 

hesitated  a  moment  betwixt  memories  of  the  whip  she 
threatened  and  a  fear  of  future  realities.  But  an  impish 
yet  very  human  desire  to  strike  back  decided  him.  "They 
said  that  by  God's  grace  they  would  keep  their  children 
from  the  devil." 

At  that  the  termagant  in  her  woke.  "By  Holy  Paul, 
they'll  smart  for  that !  The  devil,  do  they  say  ?  I'll  prove 
it  true — I'll  so  stir  the  fires " 

"Signora,"  Fieravanti's  voice  overbore  her  passion,  so 
authoritative  was  it.  "Would  you  stir  the  fires  to  scorch 
yourself  and  all  for  a  boy-fool's  malice?  Let  him  taste  the 
whip,  and  soundly ;  it's  his  deserts.  Give  me  three  minutes 
and  I  shall  fetch  a  child."  Nor  did  he  wait  for  a  reply,  but 
thrusting  before  him  the  page,  now  on  the  edge  of  weeping 
for  all  his  dignity  of  thirteen  years,  left  her  alone. 

Within  his  set  limits  of  time  he  was  back,  a  child  in 
his  arms,  a  solemn,  wide-eyed  girl  of  three  and  not  the 
raggedest  out  of  ragged  Forli :  poor  to  privation,  but  with 
a  mother's  careful  love  writ  large  upon  her  poverty  in 
darns  and  patches. 

Already  Amata  Capponi's  mood  had  changed.  The  vio- 
lence of  her  passion  was  spent,  leaving  her  flushed  of  face 
and  sullen.  Girolamo  would  do  much  for  her,  but  cer- 
tainly he  would  not  set  Forli  ablaze  upon  her  account 
Vexed,  she  had  caught  the  lever  and  was  shifting  the  statue 


144  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

"back  and  forth  with  short,  impatient  jerks,  her  eyes  bent 
on  the  upturned  face  of  the  marble.  Hearing  Fieravanti'g 
footfall  she  looked  up. 

"Call  that  thing  a  woman!"  she  said  spitefully.  "It's 
what  I  said  at  first — cold  stone  and  no  more.  That  is  the 
worst  of  marble,  there's  never  blood  in  the  veins.  Give 
me  canvas  and  warm  flesh!  Is  that  the  brat?  Here! 
Give  her  to  me.  The  Great  Mother,  did  you  say?  Now, 
Ser  Marco,  judge — judge/' 

Taking  the  child  roughly,  for,  though  passion  had  spent 
its  violence  there  was  still  the  will  to  hurt  what  lay  near- 
est, she  caught  her  to  her  breast  with  awkward,  unac- 
customed arms  from  which  the  loose  sleeves  had  slipped 
aside  and  faced  him,  arrogant  in  the  knowledge  of  her 
beauty.  But,  first  to  her  surprise  and  chagrin,  then  to 
her  vexed  anger,  she  read  distaste,  disapproval,  displeas- 
ure even.  Hastily  she  mended  her  hand,  easing  the  child 
more  naturally  and  wrapping  her  shapely  arms  in  the  con- 
cealing sleeves. 

"My  faith !  I  forgot !  It  is  the  mother  in  me  you  want, 
not  the  woman." 

Yet,  being  who  and  what  she  was  she  could  not  keep 
the  woman  out  of  her  eyes,  but  sought  to  conquer  him  by 
the  allure  which  hitherto  had  never  failed.  In  her  absorp- 
tion she  forgot  the  child,  gripping  it  so  tightly  that,  pa- 
tient as  the  children  of  the  poor  must  needs  be,  the  pinched 
face  puckered  into  soundless  tears.  Whereat  Fieravanti 
shook  his  head. 

"Signora,  had  I  a  mirror  you  would  see  for  yourself  and 
understand." 

"A  mirror  ?"  she  cried,  all  flame  on  the  moment.    "God's 

"name!  have  you  not  eyes  in  your  head — no,  not  to  look 

with  but  for  me  to  see !    There !  take  your  brat !  a  stone 

to  hack  a  stone  from  a  stone!"  she  gibed  as  Fieravanti 


A  CHOICE  OF  MODELS  145 

clasped  the  child  she  almost  flung  into  his  arms,  'like  from 
like;  that's  all  you  are  fit  for,  you  and  your  cold  saints. 
So  you  choose  the  dicer's  wench,  do  you?  Be  sure  I'll  not 
forget." 

"Signora,"  began  Fieravanti  as  she  swung  towards  the 
door  on  her  heel ;  but  she  halted  to  snarl  back  at  him, 

"Illustrissima  to  you  and  your  peasant  kind,  always 
Illustrissima :  remember  that,  my  Praxiteles  of  the  mud.'* 
With  that  she  went. 

Soothing  the  child  Fieravanti  followed,  but  not  at  once. 
It  was  wiser  to  give  the  litter  time  to  leave  the  Via  dell' 
Agnello  lest  she  should  break  out  on  him  afresh,  and  the 
folk  be  less  lamblike  than  was  good  for  their  comfort :  nor 
did  the  small  hand  go  empty  when  the  mother  dried  the 
last  tears  from  the  pale  cheeks. 

Returning,  Fieravanti  stood  long  by  his  handiwork, 
turning  the  lever  idly  but  with  no  thought  for  what  was 
still  lacking  from  the  pure,  cold  face.  Another  face  was 
clear-cut  before  him,  a  face  no  less  pure  and  scarcely  less 
cold.  Was  he  wise  to  return  to  Faldora  at  all?  He,  one 
of  the  peasant  kind,  no  Praxiteles  but  a  simple  maker  of 
saints.  Of  the  mud?  The  phrase  was  the  venom  of  a 
vexed  woman's  spleen,  but  would  Ascanio  Faldora  not 
agree?  Therefore,  was  he  wise  to  return? 

Why  not?  Because  love  had  meshed  him?  He  knew 
that  now,  taught  by  Amata  Capponi's  forced  contrast  and 
her  sneering  will  to  smirch.  And  when  a  man  of  his 
years,  no  half-formed  passionate  boy  to  dream  himself 
heart-deep  in  love  one  day  and  waken  out  of  it  the  next, 
but  a  man  grown  to  a  man's  full  height  and  depth — His 
thought  stumbled,  losing  stride.  Height  and  depth  of 
passion?  Yes!  No  stone,  but  a  man  as  nerved  with  the 
fires  of  passion  as  ever  any  son  of  Adam,  a  man  who  these 
years  had  looked  woman's  beauty  in  the  face,  aye,  and  their 


146  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

allure,  their  enticement,  their  more  than  hinted  dalliance, 
without  a  heart's  throb  until,  now,  unsought,  against  all 
hope,  all  reason — 

With  a  despairing  lift  of  the  hands  he  turned  away. 
Such  a  man  had  better  go  no  more  to  Faldora,  the  sacri- 
fice was  too  great.  Then  he  remembered  Carlo  Faldora. 
No,  there  was  no  help  for  it;  return  he  must:  nor,  on 
second  thoughts,  would  there  be  a  sacrifice.  Suffering 
there  might  be — must  be,  but  that  which  love  suffers  for 
love's  sake  can  never  be  called  sacrifice;  rather  it  is  love's 
justification. 

And  Amata  Capponi?  In  the  flaming  heat  of  their 
wrath  some  natures  cry,  I'll  not  forget!  and  cooling, 
straightway  do  forget;  but  not  Amata  Capponi.  Forget? 
No!  With  every  new  day  the  galling  to  her  wounded 
vanity  rankled  yet  more  rawly.  But  how  to  strike  back? 
Through  Ordelaffi  ?  Ordelaffi  would  laugh  at  her,  tolerantly 
at  first,  then,  if  she  persisted,  not  so  tolerantly  and  for  good 
cause.  Marco  Fieravanti  held  the  love  of  Forli ;  not  even 
for  her  sake  would  Ordelaffi  set  Forli  ablaze,  turning  that 
love  into  a  new  cause  for  hate  against  himself.  Besides, 
she  would  have  to  explain,  and  however  well  she  lied  Orde- 
laffi would  scent  the  truth  and  laugh  yet  louder  at  the 
thought  of  Amata  Capponi  masquerading  as  the  Great 
Mother — hint  Venus  she  would  not  dare. 

But  when,  on  the  fourth  day,  Ordelaffi's  spies  brought 
word  that  an  ox-cart  had  arrived  from  Faldora  to  be  laden 
with  a  block  of  marble  from  the  maker  of  saints  a  light 
broke.  Carlo  Faldora  !  Watching  her  opportunity  she  sent 
for  Ordelaffi's  secretary.  Born  not  so  far  from  the  mud 
herself  she  knew  nothing  of  letters,  a  sign-manual  being 
the  limit  of  her  skill  with  a  pen. 

'^Write  this,"  she  ordered  curtly,  "Mwrco  Fieravanti  was 
present  in  the  Castello  the  night  of  the  dicing,  see  to 
yourself." 


A  CHOICE  OF  MODELS  147 

"But,  Illustrissima,  my  lord  has  forbidden " 

"He  forbids  and  I  bid — choose !  But  if  you  refuse,  as  I 
live  I'll  break  you  like  that !"  and  crumpling  one  of  his 
quills  into  flinders  she  flung  it  aside.  "Now,"  she  went 
on  when  he  had  written,  "speak  to  my  lord  of  this  and  he 
will  do  the  breaking!'* 

So  it  came  about  that  when,  presently,  the  driver  of  the 
oxen  returned  by  the  Flaminian  Way  he  had  in  charge  not 
alone  the  block  of  marble,  roughly  shaped,  in  his  cart,  but 
in  his  pouch  a  letter  for  the  young  Count,  which  letter  if 
he  lost  he  might  go  hang  himself  lest  worse  befalL 


CHAPTER  XV 

BIRDS    OF    A   DARK    FEATHER 

SINCE  Giro  of  the  broken  head  and  missing  finger, 
better  known  as  Giro  of  the  dogs,  had  been  too  busied  of 
late  with  the  labour  on  his  far-off  vineyard  to  show  himself 
at  the  Casa,  that  business  following  upon  Fieravanti's 
supper  on  his  return  from  Arzano,  it  was  natural  that  Carlo 
Faldora  should  be  more  often  abroad  through  the  hills.  It 
was,  then,  the  cause  of  no  remark  when  on  the  day  follow- 
ing the  arrival  of  the  ox-cart  from  Forli  he  mounted  and 
rode  hillwards.  Nor  did  any  connect  the  fact  that  he 
rode  earlier  than  his  wont  with  the  receiving  of  a  letter 
which  he  had  opened  carelessly  the  night  before  and  read 
with  a  curse.  No;  if  any  gave  the  letter  a  second  thought 
it  was  that  the  young  signer,  being  the  signer  and  young, 
had  left  debts  behind  him  in  Forli:  now,  debts  have  an 
uncomfortable  habit  of  following  a  man  wherever  he  may 
go,  and  curses  are  the  cheapest  mode  of  payment  yet  dis- 
covered. 

It  was  natural,  too,  and  without  any  apparent  connection 
with  the  letter,  that  Carlo  Faldora  should  question  the 
driver  of  the  cart  as  to  the  coming  of  the  man  who  was  to 
chisel  the  rough-hewn  marble  into  saint-like  shape.  True, 
he  had  rather  mocked  at  Father  Bernardo's  scheme  for 
rousing  the  divine  spark  presumed  to  be  latent  in  the  Bret- 
tinoro  clods,  but  it  is  notorious  that  men  at  times  are  prone 
to  hide  their  finer  feelings  under  a  cloak  of  indifference  or 
worse.  Possibly  Carlo  Faldora  was  one  of  such,  and  in 

148 


BIRDS  OF  A  DARK  FEATHER         149 

any  case  all  the  Casa  was  agog  to  know  when  this  new 
thing  would  begin  in  their  midst:  there  are  more  Areo- 
pagites  in  the  world  than  are  to  be  met  with  on  Mars  Hill. 

But  Faldora  learned  little.  The  Master,  as  they  called 
him  "down  there/'  would  follow  and  might  arrive  on  the 
morrow — next  day — any  day.  Whereat  the  sacrifice  of  a 
fresh  anathema  was  offered  up,  no  doubt  this  time  on  the 
altar  of  Brettinoro's  cloddish  needs.  Next  morning,  as 
has  been  said,  the  young  signer  rode  hillwards  while  the 
dew  was  yet  white  on  the  grass. 

Just  where  and  in  what  circumstance  the  threads  of 
Carlo  Faldora's  life  had  crossed  those  of  Lippo  the  Ishmae- 
lite  are  not  of  this  story.  It  is  enough  that  each  found 
a  use  for  the  other  with  a  resulting  mutual  benefit  in 
crowns  and  ducats.  Nor  is  it  hard  to  conceive  the  gain 
such  a  man  as  Lippo  might  derive  through  the  good 
offices  of  a  friend  in  the  camp  of  his  enemies,  while  it  is 
even  less  a  strain  on  the  imagination  that  the  cogger  of 
dice  in  Forli  should  have  no  scruple  in  sharing  gains  with 
a  cut-purse  of  the  hills. 

Besides — and  this,  surely,  makes  for  righteousness — it 
was  but  a  temporary  alliance.  Carlo  Faldora  had  his 
mind  clearly  made  up— once  let  his  position  be  absolutely 
assured,  that  is  to  say,  bluntly,  once  let  him  find  himself 
standing  in  his  Uncle's  shoes,  and  there  would  be  a  swift 
end  to  Lippo:  a  trap  would  be  set,  and  the  oaks  of  Bret- 
tinoro  would  bear  grim  fruit  as  a  result.  Thereby  three 
things  would  be  achieved,  First,  the  past  wiped  out; 
secondly,  future  peace  assured;  thirdly,  his  conscience 
cleansed  from  present  offence.  Meanwhile,  conscience 
troubled  him  not  at  all  and  Lippo  had  his  uses. 

Whoso  knows  the  hills  above  Brettinoro  knows  that  they 
are  a  crumple  of  stony  ridges  and  intricate  ravines,  these 
latter  deep  wooded,  well  watered,  sheltered  in  the  winter 
and  altogther  admirable  for  the  free  life  of  a  gentleman 


150  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

of  the  road.  If  danger  threatened  on  the  one  side,  which, 
so  far,  it  never  had,  Rome,  who  was  responsible  for  law  and 
justice,  being  far  off,  but  if  it  so  threatened  there  was  al- 
ways a  choice  of  leisurely  ways  of  escape. 

It  was  up  one  of  these  roads  that  Faldora  drove  his 
horse  in  no  leisurely  fashion  that  June  morning,  nor,  even 
at  this  back  door  to  Lippo's  comfortable  quarters,  was  he 
challenged.  True,  for  the  last  mile  eyes  had  watched  him, 
their  presence  unsuspected  in  the  thickets  upon  either  side, 
but  the  young  signor  was  known  as  a  friend  and  in  any 
case  to  challenge  a  single  horseman  was  pure  waste ;  it  was 
simpler  to  let  him  ride  on  deeper  into  the  folds  of  the  hills 
and  then,  if  extreme  measures  were  absolutely  necessary, 
make  an  end  at*  leisure. 

By  a  seeming  paradox,  but  in  reality  most  naturally, 
through  the  very  earliness  of  his  visit  Faldora  found  the 
camp  busily  astir.  With  Castel-Cavo  a  day's  journey  dis- 
tant upon  the  one  side,  and  Arzano  as  far  upon  the  other, 
Lippo's  possible  tides  of  fortune  flowed,  like  other  tides, 
twice  a  day — in  the  early  morning,  as  travellers  left  the 
hospitable  Custom  of  Brettinoro  behind  them,  or  upon  their 
arrival  towards  sunset.  For  the  first  of  these,  the  early 
morning  departure,  preparations  were  in  progress  with 
Lippo  himself  superintending,  and  into  the  bustle  and  stir 
rode  Carlo  Faldora.  Not  all  looked  up  as  he  passed,  but 
those  who  did  greeted  him  with  respect,  not  for  his  own 
sake,  be  it  said,  but  for  the  name  he  bore. 

Seeing  him  approach  Lippo  beckoned  to  Giro. 

"Here  comes  our  rook-pigeon.  Take  thou  command,  but 
wait;  he  may  have  news.  Good-morning,  signor,"  he  went 
on,  meeting  Faldora,  his  tone  a  subtle  blending  of  respect 
and  bluff  equality.  "Is  there  a  hunt  a-foot?" 

"You  have  said  it/'  answered  Faldora  curtly.  "Bid  one 
of  your  rascals  take  my  horse,  and  let  that  crop-fingered 
shadow  of  yours  go  with  us  while  we  talk." 


BIRDS  OF  A  DARK  FEATHER         151 

"Shadow?  My  faith!  hut  some  have  found  Giro  too 
solid  substance  to  please  them/'  and  Lippo  laughed. 

"His  head  was  solid  enough  when  the  Englishman 
rattled  his  cudgel  on  it.  Less  bone  and  more  brain  would 
have  saved  his  skull  and  spared  us  all  trouble;  but  we're 
as  God  made  us." 

Lippo  grew  serious.  "Signer,  leave  gibing  Giro:  it 
maddens  him,  that  memory." 

''The  madder  the  better:  he  will  strike  home  the  more 
surely  when  his  chance  comes." 

They  had  entered  Lippo's  quarters,  Giro,  obeying  a  ges- 
ture, following.  It  was  one  of  the  group  of  wooden  huta 
which  formed  the  camp,  nor,  except  for  solid  walls,  was 
Carlo  Faldora  himself  better  housed  at  the»Casa.  Little 
by  little  Lippo,  a  luxurious  dog,  had  gathered  together 
furnishings  which  old  Giuseppe  might  have  set  before  a 
Colonna  unashamed.  True,  the  floor  was  of  beaten  earth, 
the  walls  of  rough-hewn  timber  instead  of  mosaic  and 
smooth  plaster,  but  there  were  warm  hangings,  bright- 
hued  rugs,  a  soft  bed,  padded  chairs,  and  glass  and  silver 
of  a  quality  to  brighten  the  eyes  of  any  house-proud 
woman. 

Flinging  his  cap  on  the  bed  Faldora  seated  himself  by 
a  table  placed  in  the  centre  of  the  hut,  motioned  hastily  to 
Lippo  to  uncover — lest  no  leave  should  be  asked — and 
turned  to  Giro,  who,  being  only  jackal  to  the  wolf,  stood 
apart  with  a  suggestion  of  deference  not  entirely  feigned. 

"Since  you  come  no  longer  to  the  Casa  you  do  not  hear 
the  news?" 

"Not  all  of  it,  signer,"  answered  Giro  cautiously. 

"Then  here's  for  you — If  you  would  cure  the  memory  of 
that  broken  head  of  yours  your  chance  has  come." 

"Meaning?"    It  was  Lippo  who  spoke. 

"Meaning  that  Fieravanti  and  his  scarpellino  will  be  on 
the  road  any  day  now." 


152  A  MAKEE  OF  SAINTS 

But  Lippo  shook  his  head.  "Let  him  come/'  he  said 
very  seriously.  "Though  he  had  broken  ten  heads,  my 
own  among  them,  he  is  safe  from  me." 

For  a  moment  Faldora  stared  incredulously,  a  sudden 
sinking  disappointment  gripping  his  heart;  then  he 
laughed,  not  a  loud  laugh  nor  a  long,  but  a  laugh  with  a 
spur  to  murder  in  it. 

A  whole  chapter  might  be  written  on  the  influence  of 
men's  laughter  and  two  upon  that  of  women.  It  is  to  be 
doubted  if  words  themselves  are  as  heartening  or  as 
deadly  as  laughter:  it  can  comfort  sorrow,  it  can  rouse 
courage,  bind  up  broken  faith,  waken  manhood,  shame 
baseness,  stir  to  generosity,  thrill  with  God's  purest  hap- 
piness, turn  doubt  to  assurance,  strangle  struggling  good, 
spur  to  heroism,  change  wholesome  blood  to  gall,  damn  to 
despair,  goad  to  murder,  heat  ten  times  hotter  the  blazing 
fires  of  hell:  because  of  laughter  men  have  died  smiling, 
have  turned  their  backs  on  their  greater  selves,  have  risen 
to  the  very  topmost  heights  of  earth's  seventh  heaven  or 
plunged  head-long,  cursing,  to  the  eternal  pit:  there  is  no 
limit  to  the  power  of  laughter.  Looking  Lippo  in  the  face 
Faldora  laughed. 

"Dio  mio!"  he  mocked.  "A  maker  of  saints  they  call 
him — Santo  Lippo  of  Brettinoro!  Or  have  you  turned 
coward  by  any  chance?' 

"Oh,  you  may  laugh,  signor,  you  may  laugh — if  you 
think  it  wise !  But  better  ten  broken  heads  than  one 
stretched  neck :  when  a  man's  breath  is  once  choked  out  of 
him  it  has  a  way  of  staying  out.  If  you  have  forgotten,  I 
have  not, — and  there  is  at  least  one  of  your  name  who 
keeps  his  word — 'Let  Lippo  beware,  if  he  lays  so  much 
as  a  finger  on  a  guest  of  Faldora's  he'll  hang,  Church  or 
no  Church.'  Your  memory  that  night,  signor,  was  not 
good;  you  forgot  to  tell  us  of  Count  Ascanio's  oath.  But 


BIRDS  OF  A  DARK  FEATHER        153 

we  heard,  oh  yes,  we  heard  as  it  was  meant  we  should,  and 
by  Saint  Lippo  of  Brettinoro  I'll  heed." 

"Phit!"  jeered  Faldora.  "A  dotard's  frothing!  Does 
that  fright  you?" 

"I  am  free  to  admit  that  the  uncle  frights  me  more 
than  the  nephew.  And  now  that  that's  settled,  signer 
Carlo,  Giro  had  best  go  about  his  business.  This  maker  of 
saints  is  safe  for  me." 

"But  are  you  safe  for  him?  There  are  more  oaths  in 
the  world  than  those  sworn  over  a  supper-table." 

"Meaning,  signer?" 

"That  this  meddling  chiseller  swore  on  Margotti's 
bones " 

"Oh,  that  ?  So  that  tale  has  reached  you  too  ?  Let  him 
swear!  What  can  he  do,  he  and  his  chisel.  Keep  thou 
clear  of  him,  Giro :  it's  an  order." 

But  though  a  nod  dismissed  the  jackal  he  lingered  ir- 
resolutely, then  broke  out, 

"Signers  both,  if  I  meet  that  cudgeller,  what  then  ?" 

"Nothing!  Have  patience  and,  faith  of  Lippo!  I 
promise  you  he'll  wish  he  were  Margotti.  Do  I  ever  for- 
get?" 

This  time  Giro  obeyed  the  unspoken  order.  Margotti? 
The  children  with  the  mother  were  proof  Lippo  did  not 
forget.  Beyond  the  door  they  heard  him  whistle  up  his 
dogs. 

Left  together  Lippo,  the  laugh  still  jarring  his  ears, 
touched  Faldora  lightly  on  the  arm.  "What  is  your 
quarrel  with  this  maker  of  saints?" 

"Quarrel?  I?  No  quarrel.  What  quarrel  could  I 
have?" 

"Why  not  a  dicer's.  Mayhap,  he  refused  to  play  with 
you.  He's  of  Forli,  is  he  not  ? 

"A  dicer's?    Of  Forli?    What— what "    But  before 


154  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

the  jeering,  dry  significance  in  Lippo's  ironic  smile  Fal- 
dora's  bluster  trailed  into  silence ;  then  passion  shook  him, 
that  shrewish  passion  which  is  the  refuge  of  the  weak 
man,  all  bubble  and  froth.  White  faced,  a  lip  uplifted, 
dog-like,  over  bared  teeth,  he  broke  into  a  snarl.  "So  that 
tale  has  reached  you?  It's  a  lie — a  lie!" 

"Softly,  signor,  softly,"  said  Lippo  tolerantly.  "Lie  or 
truth  is  all  one  to  me.  Suppose  it  a  lie,  there's  an  end  of 
it;  suppose  it  true  what  matters?  Nought  to  me!  It's 
just  that  we  are  two  of  a  trade  with  this  difference — I  take 
toll  of  a  stranger,  you  drink  with  a  friend  and  then — um, 
what  shall  I  say  ?  then  dice  with  him !  Either  way  it  fills 
the  pockets." 

"A  lie,"  repeated  Faldora,  but  with  less  force,  "a  lie — 
a  lie!" 

"Granted,  but  here's  the  point.  Supposing  this  Forli 
chiseller  whispers  the  lie  to  Count  Ascanio  and  bids  him 
send  to  Ordelaffi?" 

Down  came  Faldora's  clenched  fist  on  the  table  between 
them.  "Suppose?  Suppose?  He  will!  Yet  you,  who 
might  make  an  end  to  his  whispers,  refuse " 

"Softly,  signor,  softly"  repeated  Lippo.  "The  making 
an  end  to  his  whispers  would  make  an  end  to  me.  That's 
settled.  Count  Ascanio  swore  no  dicer's  oath  that  night 
at  supper!  And  there  is  this — why  should  I  rake  your 
hot  chestnuts  out  of  a  fire  of  your  own  making?  Let  us 
be  men  of  sense,  signor.  Clearly,  so  far  he  has  whispered 
nothing,  and  if  not  so  far  then  why  whisper  at  all?  At 
least,  why  in  any  haste?  Now  comes  this  saint  making 
for — how  long?  Weeks,  if  not  months?  Here  is  my  ad- 
vice: Hasten  the  marriage — we  know  all  about  it,  signor 
— hasten  it  all  you  can.  Dio  mio!  in  your  place  I  would 
not  find  it  hard  to  be  ardent  myself !  Then,  while  whist- 
ling young  Cupid  down  the  wind  make  your  opportunity 
and  pick  your  own  chestnuts  out  of  the  fire.  How?  You 


BIRDS  OF  A  DARK  FEATHER         155 

wear  a  sword,  don't  you,  and  what  is  he  but  a  chiseller? 
But  haste — that  is  the  essence  of  it  all,  haste  and  then 
more  haste.*' 

His  passion  flat  out  of  him  as  froth  falls  flat  Faldora, 
a  thumb-point  between  his  nibbling  teeth,  sat  listening  in 
silence.  That  Lippo  should  venture  to  be  thus  familiar 
vexed  that  pride  of  race  in  him  which  resented  encroach- 
ments from  below,  yet  failed  to  keep  his  own  feet  out  of 
the  mud ;  but  he  dared  not  openly  rebuke  the  presumption. 
Lippo  would  have  his  uses  yet,  and  Carlo  Faldora  was 
not  the  man  to  fling  away  a  tool  because  it  cut  his  fingers. 

Besides,  the  advice  was  sound.  These  two  months  he 
had  recognised  the  soundness,  but  apart  from  the  Church's 
objection  to  Lenten  marriages  this  cleft  stick  pinched  him 
— the  very  pressing  on  the  marriage,  creating  a  stir  in 
Forli,  might  bring  the  Castello  story  to  Ascanio  Faldora's 
ears,  and  so  he  had  let  the  days  drift.  Now  that  must 
end.  To  make  haste  was  less  dangerous  than  to  drift. 
Fieravanti?  There,  too,  Lippo  was  right.  If,  so  far,  he 
had  not  spoken,  why  should  he  speak  at  all?  In  a  word, 
what  would  speaking  profit  him?  That,  to  Carlo  Faldora, 
was  at  all  times  the  touchstone  of  action — what  did  a  man 
gain?  This  maker  of  saints,  for  example?  Gain?  So 
far  from  gaining  anything  he  might  lose!  There  would 
be  an  end  to  this  priest's  folly  of  Father  Bernardo's :  As- 
canio Faldora's  pride  would  never  house  the  man  who 

There  the  sequence  of  thought  snapped:  it  led  to  too 
unpleasant  realities.  If  Ascanio  would  not  house  the  man 
who  laid  bare  the  blot  on  his  name,  what  toleration  would 
he  show  the  causer  of  the  stain?  Hastily  Carlo  Faldora 
knotted  the  broken  thread  further  back — No!  it  would 
not  pay  Fieravanti  to  speak.  But  was  it  wise  to  trust 
even  that  far?  Would  the  silence  of — of — a  Margotti  not 
be  safer  ?  Yes ;  there  Lippo  was  again  right.  The  risk  ? 
Little  risk,  chisel  against  sword!  and  at  the  thought  his 


156  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

sour  spleen  dissolved  in  a  laugh  as  he  met  his  fellow 
rogue's  gaze  frankly. 

"Be  it  so !  Haste  and  a  quarrel !  Nor,  now  I  think  of 
it,  need  there  even  be  a  quarrel.  More  than  one  of  Tri- 
balda's  men  owes  me  a  good  turn  and  will  pay  it  for  the 
asking:  the  cudgeller  I  leave  to  Giro." 

Lippo  nodded  as  both  rose.  "Giro  will  not  forget.  He 
has  his  methods,  has  Giro."  But  as  Faldora  mounted 
Lippo  laid  a  familiar  hand  on  his  knee,  nor,  for  all  his 
pride,  was  it  shaken  off  as  it  would  have  been  a  week 
before.  "Signor  Carlo,  after  all,  perhaps  this  Fieravanti 
knows  nothing.  If  not,  why  burn  your  fingers  in  a  fire 
where  there  are  no  chestnuts?" 

Very  thoughtfully  Faldora  rode  homewards  down  the 
winding  valley.  The  letter  said  Fieravanti  had  been  at 
the  Castello;  it  did  not  say  Fieravanti  knew.  Which  way 
lay  the  truth?  There  was  clear  wisdom  in  Lippo's  last 
words;  to  sell  one's  self  to  the  devil  for  nothing  is  the 
poorest  bargain  the  world  holds.  And  such  a  selling  it 
might  be  if,  holding  bread  and  salt  sacred,  the  Grand 
Seigneur  in  Ascanio  Faldora  resented  the  killing  of  a 
guest.  What  then?  This  for  one  thing — assurance  was 
wisdom:  how  much  or  how  little  did  this  accursed  Fiera- 
vanti know?  But  how  reach  assurance?  Though  Carlo 
Faldora  rode  slowly  as  he  pondered  his  problem  he  had 
found  no  light  by  the  end  of  his  journey. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
"THEY  ABE  NOT  MY  FOLK" 

WHEN,  three  days  later,  Fieravanti  and  his  two  scarpel- 
lini  reached  the  Casa  they  found  another  guest  more  hon- 
ourable than  they  to  fill  the  seat  at  Faldora's  left  hand. 
This  was  no  chance  comer  by  way  of  the  Custom  but 
Fausto  Alidosi,  Lord  of  Imola,  who,  travelling  with  but 
a  small  company  to  Rimini,  had  ridden  by  way  of  the 
mountain  road  rather  than  pass  near  Forli.  Therein  he 
was  wise.  Ordelaffi  and  Forli  had  this  one  bond  in  com- 
mon— they  hated  Imola  and  the  Alidosi.  A  dungeon  in 
the  Castello,  or  a  yet  narrower  lodging,  was  the  only 
hospitality  Fausto  Alidosi  could  expect  at  the  hands  of 
the  Tyrant  of  Forli. 

Seated  next  him,  as  they  ate  and  drank  leisurely,  was 
the  maker  of  saints,  and  talk  turning  on  the  hazards  of 
the  road  Fieravanti,  very  briefly,  told  the  story  of  Mar- 
gotti's  warning  with  its  tragic  sequence.  And  as  he  spoke 
a  silence  fell  the  length  of  the  long  table,  such  a  silence 
as  had  fallen  that  night  when  old  Faldora  had  hailed  the 
coming  of  young  feet  to  his  empty  stairs — the  coming  of 
life  and  the  passing  of  life,  what  is  there  in  the  world  that 
matches  their  gravity?  Life  itself?  Hardly.  In  it  there 
are  lights  to  break  the  shadows  into  their  due  proportions, 
but  who  can  tell  for  certain  what  lies  beyond  the  opening 
or  the  closing  of  the  door?  So  there  was  a  silence,  and 
a  double  line  of  faces  converging  on  Marco  Fieravanti  as, 
with  that  unconscious  art  which  is  born  of  deep  feeling, 

157 


158  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

he  made  clear  even  to  the  dullest  eye  that  pitiful  small 
heap  of  blackened  stones,  a  charnel  rubble  where  orlce 
love  had  housed  and  the  poor  of  their  poverty  given  bread 
to  the  stranger. 

There  is  a  great  power  in  quietness.  Always  the  divine 
is  less  in  the  thunder  than  in  the  still  small  voice.  Though 
Fieravanti  spoke  bitterly  he  spoke  slowly,  dispassionately 
and  without  tricks  of  rhetoric,  leaving  the  grim  tragedy 
to  compel  its  own  effects.  And  they  differed,  these  effects. 
Below  the  salt  were  women  who  went  white,  men  who 
clenched  teeth  and  fists  as  they  listened:  others,  both  men 
and  women,  who  stared  open  mouthed  but  untouched,  mere 
Brettinoro  clods;  yet  others,  men  these,  who  after  the  first 
glance  sat  back  in  their  settles,  chin  on  breast,  though  at 
the  last  one  or  two  took  fire  and  leaning  suddenly  forward 
cursed  softly  under  their  breath. 

From  the  table-end  Count  Ascanio's  eyes,  fierce  with 
the  haggard  fierceness  of  the  very  old  when  moved  by 
passion,  never  shifted  from  Fieravantfs  face;  on  the  flat 
of  the  table  one  lean  hand  gripped  and  ungripped  in  shift- 
ing spasms :  into  Lucia  Faldora's  eyes  the  tears  had  sprung, 
hung  large  an  instant  then  rained  softly,  unheeded  if  not 
unknown  as  she  listened;  opposite,  Fausto  Alidosi,  three 
years  the  sculptor's  elder  and  as  dark  of  face  as  Fieravanti 
was  fair,  nodded  a  grave  head  from  time  to  time,  his 
fingers  absently  playing  with  what  lay  nearest  as  if  he  said 
it  was  to  be  deplored  that  such  things  were,  but  there 
they  were  and  that  was  an  end  to  it.  That,  too,  seemed 
Carlo  Faldora's  philosophy  as,  his  shoulders  shrugged,  his 
finger-tips  drumming  carelessly,  he  sat  with  eyes  lowered 
lest  Count  Ascanio  should  catch  and  wither  the  ironic 
smile  which  would  not  be  suppressed:  as  for  Father  Ber- 
nardo, his  lips  moved  silently  in  God  alone  knew  what 
agony  of  prayer,  and  shame  that  such  things  should  be. 


"THEY  ARE  NOT  MY  FOLK"          159 

"The  children  with  the  mother,  the  little,  little  children. 
Surely  God's  mercy  was  about  them  in  that  last  awful 
hour,  for  man  had  none." 

"Surely,  surely/'  whispered  the  priest.  "The  little  chil- 
dren, ah,  dear  God !  the  little  children,"  and  below  the  salt 
a  woman  sobbed. 

"God's  mercy?"  Fieravanti  roused  himself,  meeting 
Ascanio  Faldora's  stern  fierceness  with  a  look  hardly  less 
stern.  "Mercy?  Yes,  But  what  of  the  justice  He  leaves 
to  men?  Illustrissimo,  what  of  justice  I  ask?  What  of 
justice  ?" 

"They  are  not  my  folk.  They  once  were,  but  not  now." 
Faldora's  lips  had  gone  dry  and  the  words  came  roughly 
as  if  from  his  throat. 

"Whose  then?  The  Church's?  Father,  will  the  Church 
move  a  finger?  No !  Rome  is  far  off!  A  statue  for  their 
souls'  good  but  let  their  bodies  burn !  God's  mercy,  then, 
not  the  Church's !  Illustrissimo,"  this  time  it  was  Alidosi 
to  whom  he  turned,  "you  have  power — authority — men, 
you  could  crush " 

"And  fall  foul  of  the  Church  in  the  crushing?  No! 
Every  cock  to  his  own  dunghill,  Messer  Fieravanti." 

"Then  it  is  indeed  a  dunghill !" 

"Now  you  are  not  courteous.  But  how  should  such  as 
you  understand?  Let  us  be  frank.  It  is  true  I  have 
power — authority — men,  but  why  waste  these  and  them?" 

"Waste?"  There  was  no  shift  to  courtesy  in  Fieravanti 's 
voice,  only  the  same  indignant  scorn  and  challenge  of 
contempt.  "To  do  justice  is  waste!" 

"I  said  you  could  not  understand.  It  is  waste  to  throw 
away  a  greater  for  a  lesser.  These  peasants  must  shift 
for  themselves.  Men?  Soldiers?  See,  I  shall  be  frank. 
The  first  duty  of  authority  is  to  protect  itself  lest  it  ceaae 
to  be  authority.  Soldiers  are  more  necessary  to  power 


160  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

than  peasants.  God,  He  knows,  the  one  is  harder  to  find 
than  the  other,  these  times.  You  find  it  so,  Captain 
Tribalda?" 

But  Fieravanti  refused  to  be  set  aside.  His  oath  sworn 
by  the  roadside  drove  him.  Knowing  his  own  impotence 
and  goaded  by  his  extremity  he  allowed  no  time  for  Tri- 
balda to  reply  but  appealed  to  Carlo  Faldora.  "Signor, 
here  is  a  deed  to  stir  a  man's  soul  and  put  his  past  under 
his  feet.  Will  ydu  not  raise — — " 

"As  my  uncle  says,  they  are  not  our  folk." 

"Oh !"  At  the  reply  Lucia  drew  in  her  breath  like  one 
who  takes  a  hurt,  then  cried  in  a  half  sob,  "Would  God 
I  were  a  man !  Oh,  would  God  I  were  a  man !" 

"Would  God  you  were !"  retorted  her  grandfather.  "But 
being  only  a  woman  it  would  be  better  if  you  held  your 
tongue — though  that  is  not  always  the  woman's  part!" 

"Not  our  own  folk,"  repeated  young  Faldora.  "And  if 
not  ours,  still  less  Count  Fausto's."  Then,  for  the  life  of 
him,  he  could  not  refrain  from  a  gibe.  "You  are  a  maker 
of  saints,  Ser  Marco,  but  you  will  hardly  make  such  saints 
of  Count  Fausto's  men  that  they  will  risk  life  for  a 
handful  of  clods.  Make  saints?  Faith  of  Faldora,  here's 
a  way  out  of  it !  Make  a  saint  of  Lippo,  Ser  Marco,  make 
a  saint  of  Lippo." 

"No  saint,  but  as  God  lives  I'll  yet  make  a  spirit  of 
Lippo,  or  he  of  me." 

"How?    With  a  chisel-edge?" 

"Be  silent!"  thundered  Faldora,  suddenly  loosing  the 
passion  he  had  so  hardly  held.  Vexed  in  soul  at  himself 
for  his  refusal  he  was  not  sorry  to  find  a  vent  for  his  rage. 
"Such  devil's  work  as  this  is  no  jest  for  any  man,  least 
of  all  for  you,  a  Faldora.  There  are  times,  nephew,  when 
I  half  doubt  the  blood.  If  they  are  not  our  folk  they 
once  were  and  it  is  no  fault  of  theirs  they  are  not  Faldora's 
to  this  day." 


"THEY  AEE  NOT  MY  FOLK"          1«1 

"IllustriBsimo !"  With  prayer  in  his  voice  Fieravanti 
caught  at  a  hope  "for  the  sake  of  that  once,  for  memory 
of  these  ancient  ties,  yes,  and  for  a  greater  than  these — 
for  God  and  His  justice — Madonna,  you,  too,  are  a  Fal- 
dora,  will  you  not  plead " 

"Leave  our  women  out  of  it,"  said  her  grandfather 
harshly.  "If  I  cannot  do  a  thing  for  its  own  sake  will  I 
do  it  because  a  girl  whines?" 

"Then  for  its  own  sake "  But  as  old  Ascanio  cut 

him  short  with  an  imperative  gesture  of  a  shaken  hand  in 
a  finality  which  could  not  be  misunderstood  the  sculptor's 
voice  hardened.  "No?  Then  every  man  to  his  conscience 
and  I  to  mine.  Illustrissimo,  give  me  leave  to  raise  a 
troop,  I  have  already  two " 

"Chisellers,"  began  Carlo  as  Fieravanti's  hand  on 
'Tonio's  arm  made  clear  his  reference.  But  Faldora  put 
an  end  to  the  discussion. 

"I'll  hear  no  more !  If  we  are  here  to  sup,  in,  God's 
name  let  us  sup.  Count  Fausto,  did  you  know  that  Messer 
Fieravanti  had  just  set  the  Arzano  defences  in  order?" 

Was  it  a  courteous  host's  desire  to  make  amends  for  a 
rebuff  to  a  guest  so  much  his  inferior  that  courtesy  was 
the  more  necessary  ?  Perhaps.  But  Fieravanti  was  in  no 
mood  to  respond  when  Alidosi,  roused  to  interest,  followed 
up  the  hint.  Arzano?  Yes,  he  had  spent  nearly  two 
months  in  the  city,  but,  naturally,  what  passed  there  was 
private  to  the  Duke.  Whereat  Count  Fausto,  a  soldier 
like  all  his  class  and  something  of  a  leader  of  men  but  not 
notorious  for  liberality,  turned  his  shoulder  on  him,  vexed 
that  he  might  not  pick  the  brains  of  a  shrewder  man  than 
himself  for  nothing,  and  except  between  Alidosi  and  his 
host  there  was  silence  at  the  upper  end  of  the  table. 

Fieravanti  asked  nothing  better  than  to  be  left  to  his 
thoughts,  though  the  clearing  away  the  rubble  of  a  man's 
ruined  hopes  is,  at  the  best,  but  a  sorry  business.  Yet 


162  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

cleared  away  they  must  be  if  there  was  to  be  a  rebuilding, 
nor  was  the  sculptor  a  man  to  be  daunted  by  failure.  But 
he  had  failed,  and  only  now  that  the  ruin  lay  about  him 
was  he  clearly  aware  how  high  he  had  built  his  hopes  of 
success;  surely,  he  had  argued,  this  Grand  Seigneur  and 
very  perfect  gentleman  would  be  moved  to  elemental  jus- 
tice? Upon  that  he  had  built,  forgetting  that  other  side 
of  Ascanio  Faldora's  character  against  which  His  Grand- 
eur had  spoken  warning — the  pride  of  all  the  Faldora's 
from  the  days  of  Adam !  Not  for  an  hour  would  his  for- 
bears, those  dispensers  of  high  and  low  justice  in  the  great 
hall,  have  endured  a  Lippo  at  their  doors;  but  since  the 
Church  had  shouldered  Faldora  from  his  place,  let  the 
peasant  folk  sense  the  difference  between  a  near-by  Faldora 
and  a  Borne  far  off.  With  the  loss  of  his  old-time  power 
had  gone  the  old-time  responsibility:  the  folk  were  no 
longer  his  folk !  So  had  he  reasoned,  not  without  justice. 

And  because  of  that  reasoning  Fieravanti  had  failed. 
Overborne  by  memory,  feeling  anew  the  grip  of  the  child- 
less woman's  hold  upon  his  knee,  hearing  against  the  sob 
in  her  throat,  the  wailing  cry  of  "the  children,  the  little 
innocent  Maria,  who  ran  in  and  out  my  door,"  he  had 
even  appealed  to  Carlo  Faldora  to  show  by  some  greatness 
in  him  that  the  shame  of  Forli  might  be  redeemed,  wiped 
from  remembrance  by  a  generous  upholding  of  the  highest 
law,  sacrifice  for  another.  But  there,  too,  he  had  failed, 
and  not  there  only.  He  had  failed  with  Count  Ascanio, 
failed  with  Alidosi.  failed  with — No !  thank  God !  not  with 
Lucia  Faldora !  His  heart  leaped  within  him,  driving  the 
warm  blood  tingling  through  his  veins  as  he  recalled  her 
cry,  "Would  God  I  were  a  man!"  Here  was  a  Faldora 
who  set  God  and  right  above  her  pride. 

At  that  he  raised  his  eyes,  to  find  hers  bent  upon  him 
in  speculation:  not  at  once  did  they  shift  but  held  his 
gaze  steadily  for  a  time,  then,  unhasting,  they  shifted  to 


"THEY  ARE  NOT  MY  FOLK"          163 

Fausto  Alidosi  in  the  same  speculation.  Once  again  he 
had  perplexed  her,  this  peasant-born  maker  of  saints  who 
but  for  his  chisel  would  have  sat  below  the  salt  and  never 
drawn  a  second  thought.  Now,  be  it  said,  it  was  not  be- 
cause of  his  saint-making  that  she  searched  out  what 
manner  of  man  he  was:  that  outer  shell  of  curiosity  had 
been  shed  and  a  deeper  kernel  reached. 

At  first  unconsciously,  but  now  deliberately,  she  was 
weighing  him  against  the  man  who  had  turned  his  shoul- 
der upon  him  as  upon  something  negligible,  a  slight  which 
had  offended  her  without  the  cause  of  offence  being  clear. 
And,  as  between  her  and  Amata  Capponi  so  now,  it  was 
again  a  contrast  rather  than  a  comparison  since,  save  that 
each  was  a  man  good  to  look  upon  as  a  man,  they  had  not 
one  jot  in  common.  From  their  skin  inwards  they  dif- 
fered, these  two,  differed  body,  soul  and  spirit,  differed  in 
ideals  as  in  birth,  and  it  was  with  an  as  yet  misunderstood 
exultation  stirring  in  her  that  Lucia  Faldora  told  herself 
the  contrast  was  not  in  any  respect  to  the  advantage  of 
Alidosi  of  Imola. 

The  cruel  tragedy  of  the  Margottis  had  moved  her  to 
her  depths.  Innocent  blood,  the  children  with  the  mother, 
cried  to  God  and  man  for  vengeance:  yes,  and  for  some- 
thing finer  than  vengeance,  for  justice  in  righteousness, 
and  only  this  maker  of  saints  had  ears  to  hear  or  a  hand 
to  perform  God's  work  upon  earth.  It  was  true  that  the 
Faldora  pride  wrapped  her  as  in  a  mantle,  but  beneath 
the  mantle  beat  that  heart  of  tender  womanhood  which, 
drawing  near  to  the  divine,  suffers  with  those  who  sorrow. 

A  handful  of  clods!  For  the  first  time  the  easy  con- 
tempt vexed  her,  rousing  both  her  resentment  and  her 
scorn.  What  had  been  an  uneiamined  habit  of  thought 
now  seemed  less  a  truth  than  a  contemptible  hiding  of 
cowardice  behind  a  contempt  for  which  there  was  insuf- 
ficient justification.  Nor  had  she  failed  to  hear  Fiera- 


164  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

vanti's  pleading  with  Carlo  Faldora — a  deed  to  stir  a 
man's  blood  and  put  his  past  under  his  feet.  Pleading? 
It  was  more  than  a  pleading,  more  than  the  stirring  of  a 
man's  sense  of  manhood,  it  was  an  offer  of  condonation, 
an  opening  of  a  way  to  rehabilitation,  and  Carlo  Faldora 
had  rejected  plea,  offer  and  open  way  alike.  Only  this 
peasant-born  maker  of  saints,  this  stranger,  had  heard  the 
call,  not  Faldora  of  Pesaro,  not  Alidosi  of  Imola,  not 
Carlo  who  was  to  call  her  wife.  Little  wonder  she  had 
cried,  "Would  God  I  were  a  man,"  as  the  generous  in- 
stincts of  her  woman's  nature  rose  against  the  barriers 
which  held  her  helpless,  or  that  gratitude,  admiration 
went  out  in  flood  to  the  man  who,  untrained  in  arms,  no 
soldier  and  with  no  splendid  tradition  to  maintain,  should 
yet  be  ready  to  take  his  life  in  his  hand  in  the  cause  of 
the  poor. 

Now,  it  is  bad  for  a  man  when  the  woman  he  is  to  call 
wife  weighs  him  dispassionately  and  finds  him  wanting, 
worse  when  there  is  no  love  to  set  in  the  scale  as  a  make- 
weight, and  yet  worse  still  when,  so  weighing,  she  finds 
some  other  man  all  that  the  husband-to-be  is  not.  Therein 
lies  much  food  for  dumb  thought,  but  it  was  not  because 
Carlo  Faldora  recognised  this  worse  than  bad  that  he  sat 
silent. 

No!  That  there  should  be  a  contrasting  at  all  was  to 
him  unthinkable,  still  less  was  it  possible  that  the  chiseller 
should  win  a  second  thought  from  a  woman  of  Faldora 
blood,  but  his  vexed  suspicions,  his  malicious  will  to  hurt, 
had  over  stepped  the  bounds  of  wisdom,  losing  him  a 
golden  opportunity  of  forcing  a  double  silence.  Now,  too 
late,  he  recognised  that  instead  of  sneering  down  the  man 
he  counted  dangerous  he  should  have  aided  him,  thereby 
setting  him  at  Lippo's  throat  to  his  own  great  advantage  in 
making  an  end  of  both.  And  now,  all  for  the  sake  of  a 


"THEY  ARE  NOT  MY  FOLK"          165 

gibe  he  had  flung  the  chance  away  unless — unless — Yes, 
later,  in  a  day  or  two  he  might  mend  his  hand,  pointing 
out  that  he  could  not  oppose  his  uncle  at  his  own  table. 
Yes,  that  was  reasonable  and  an  excuse  ready  to  his  hand. 
Meanwhile  Lippo,  having  his  spies  even  at  Faldora  of 
Pesaro's  supper  table,  hearing  he  had  been  loyal  would 
be  less  on  guard.  Perhaps,  on  the  whole,  the  sneer  had 
done  no  harm  but,  he  told  himself,  he  must  not  push  an- 
tagonism too  far  lest  he  stir  up  spleen  and  Fieravanti 
should  retaliate.  But  what  did  Fieravanti  kno.w?  That 
he  must  discover,  but  how? — how?  And  so  there  was 
silence  at  the  upper  end  of  the  table  except  between  As- 
canio  Faldora  and  his  chief  guest. 

From  Arzano  and  its  defences  their  talk  had  drifted,  by 
what  channels  or  of  whom  they  spoke  Fieravanti  never 
knew,  but  presently  Faldora's  raised  voice  broke  in  upon 
his  ponderings. 

"Does  his  wealth  better  him?  I  cannot  see  it.  Land, 
blood,  and  the  Church,  these  are  equals;  but  wealth? 
riches?  No!  Any  Genoa  or  Venice  huckster,  and  Jew 
trader,  may  grow  rich.  I'll  have  none  of  them !  Let  the 
mud  of  the  world  stay  where  God  placed  it." 
"But  the  Church  is  of  the  people  at  times?" 
"Yes,  but  it  does  not  stay  of  the  people.  And  there  is 
this,  Count  Fausto,  the  Church  cannot  marry  our  daugh- 
ters. Did  you  hear  that  we  shall  have  a  wedding  shortly  ? 
Now  that  Lent  has  passed  there  need  be  no  delay,"  and  he 
laid  a  hand  on  the  girl's  arm. 

"All  happiness,  Madonna!  And  the  bridegroom?" 
"A  Faldora!"  It  was  old  Ascanio  who  answered:  ex- 
cept that  her  face  grew  expressionless  the  bride-to-be  gave 
no  sign  that  she  had  heard.  "Praised  be  God!  the  old 
name  shall  not  die  out.  We  must  look  to  our  prinkings, 
my  girl,  eh?  How  soon  do  you  pass  this  way  again, 


166  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

Count  Fausto  ?  In  a  month  ?  Well,  we  shall  see,  we  shall 
see.  Much  may  he  done  in  a  month  where  there  is  a 
will." 

A  month?  Two  had  passed  without  exposure,  could 
he  risk  a  third?  It  was  natural  that  at  the  question  Carlo 
Faldora  should  turn  in  speculation  to  the  man  from  whom 
he  most  feared  danger.  But  Fieravanti's  answering  look 
baffled  him:  it,  too,  was  full  of  speculation.  A  month? 
No!  To  linger  through  a  month  in  uncertainty  was  not 
to  be  endured,  he  must  lay  his  doubts  to  rest  one  way  or 
the  other.  How?  On  the  whole  Lippo's  way  was  best; 
the  risk  was  small — yet  suppose  the  man  knew  nothing? 
Why  run  a  risk  if  there  was  no  need?  While  certainly 
no  coward  Carlo  Faldora  was  careful  of  himself  as  every 
man  should  be  who  loves  the  one  life  he  has  to  live. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    FINDING    OF    AN    INSPIRATION 

"You  need  a  child  for  the  Madonna's  arms/'  'Tonio 
had  said  that  day  on  the  Castel-Cavo  road.  That,  too, 
had  been  Fieravanti's  first  conception — the  Great  Mother 
with  a  child  caught  to  her  sheltering  breast,  the  small 
head  warm  in  the  hollow  of  an  arm :  not  the  Christ-child, 
the  Christ-child  would  draw  the  thought  from  the  central 
purpose;  always  where  He  is  He  must  come  first,  and  so 
no  Christ-child  but  a  nursling  of  the  poor. 

But  upon  second  thoughts  the  maker  of  saints  had  set 
aside  the  conception.  For  one  thing,  it  was  too  conven- 
tional, and  he  was  not  a  man  who  loved  convention  for 
convention's  sake;  for  another,  clods  might  misconstrue. 
To  them,  because  of  convention,  any  child  in  the  Madonna's 
arms  must  needs  be  the  Christ-child;  but  also,  and  most 
compelling  reason  of  all,  it  would  limit  the  expressiveness 
of  pose.  A  prettiness  there  might  be  but  at  the  expense 
of  vigour  of  life. 

Therefore  the  iron  frame  to  support  the  clay,  a  skeleton 
of  gaunt  bars  prepared  beforehand  in  Forli  under  the 
Master's  watchful  eye,  thrust  out  a  grotesque  nakedness 
before  it  to  right  and  left,  a  nakedness  presently  to  be 
rounded  into  arms  of  invitation.  The  hands,  slender  yet 
strong,  motherly  capable  hands,  exquisitely  moulded  if 
truo  to  their  living  model,  would  be  open  to  receive,  com- 
fort and  caress,  and  looking  down  between  the  outstretched 
arms  he  conceived  a  grave,  sweet  face  where  tender  love 
and  no  less  tender  pity  should  seem  to  whisper  a  "Come 

167 


168  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

unto  me,"  through  the  curved  lips  of  the  strong  yet  gentle 
mouth,  confirming  the  smiled  welcome  of  the  eyes. 

Yearning  Mother-love,  deep-hearted  pity  from  a  sor- 
rowful foreknowledge  of  sorrow  because  of  the  sword 
which  must  strike  through  her  own  heart,  these,  surely, 
were  the  dominant  characteristics  of  the  Great  Mother? 
For  the  rest,  the  pose  should  be  one  of  welcome,  an  eager 
gathering  to  the  sheltering  arms,  bare  from  the  elbow 
downwards  for  beauty's  sake,  and  upon  the  half-bent  head 
the  thin  folds  of  a  wimple  by  way  of  concession  to  tradi- 
tion. 

That  was  the  conception  and  never,  as  the  sensitive 
fingertips  worked  his  will  upon  the  wet  clay,  had  Fiera- 
vanti's  heart  been  so  fired  within  him.  To  the  glory  of 
art?  to  that  greater  glory,  the  glory  of  God  in  quickening 
in  the  Brettinoro  clods  the  divine  spark  latent  in  every 
soul?  Something  there  was  of  these  but  they  were  not 
dominant.  No,  chiefly  it  was  to  the  glory  of  the  woman 
Amata  Capponi  had  taught  him  he  loved.  He  would  pass 
and  she  would  pass,  but  this  would  remain,  and  genera- 
tions to  come,  seeing  it,  would  say,  That  was  Lucia  Fal- 
dora;  while  those  with  the  blessed  gift  of  imagination 
would  add,  If  the  cold  marble  be  like  this,  what  must 
God's  creation  not  have  been?  So  it  was  his  heart  that 
strove  after  expression  in  the  realisation  of  perfection 
rather  than  his  brain. 

And,  perhaps  for  that  reason,  it  failed  him,  since  the 
heart  of  man  is  conscious  of  heights  and  depths  where 
the  mind  neither  soars  nor  plumbs.  The  accustomed  touch 
of  genius  was  there  in  lines  and  curves  of  beauty  but  the 
supreme  conception  evaded  him.  Beauty?  Beauty  was 
not  enough.  There  had  been  beauty  in  the  Magdalene; 
His  Grandeur  had  admitted  the  beauty  and  yet,  missing 
something  greater,  had  said,  It  is  not  finished?  No, 
beauty  was  not  enough. 


THE  FINDING  OF  AN  INSPIRATION      169 

And  yet,  strive  as  he  might  with  sensitive  touch  and 
delicate  graving  tool,  the  crowning  glory  of  the  concep- 
tion eluded  capture;  always  there  was  failure — failure  his 
fired  imagination  realised  in  despair  though  it  seemed 
hidden  from  others.  Father  Bernardo  might  whisper  "In- 
spiration !  A  miracle !"  over  clasped  hands,  as  the  strong, 
pure  face  grew  out  in  beauty  from  the  clay;  old  Faldora 
might  thaw  for  an  instant  into  unwonted  enthusiasm,  and 
even  Carlo  admit,  grudgingly,  that  it  was  good,  but  upon 
the  soul  of  Marco  Fieravanti  there  lay  the  chill  sense  of 
failure  across  whose  blackness  there  struck  no  warmth  of 
hope. 

Beauty?  Oh  yes ;  with  that  calm,  cold  living  face  turned 
patiently  to  his,  the  head  bent  as  it  should  be,  the  eyes 
veiled,  he  would  himself  have  been  a  clod  if  there  had  not 
been  the  beauty  of  youth  and  womanhood,  but  that  much 
and  no  more  was  failure.  'Tonio  and  'Sandro,  quitting 
their  roughing-out  of  the  marble  when  left  alone,  might 
lift  the  damp  cloth  and  draw  in  their  breath — Never  had 
the  Master  done  better!  But  Fieravanti,  entering  be- 
hind from  a  side  door,  would  lay  a  hand  on  the  shoulder 
of  each  and  shake  his  head  in  silence.  Luca  Melone  was 
right;  the  marble  without  a  soul  remains  cold  stone,  and 
how  can  cold  stone  quicken  the  fire  of  heaven  in  clods? 

Only  three  days  had  passed  since  the  return  from  Forli. 
With  the  fires  of  enthusiasm  flaming  within  him  Fiera- 
vanti had  laboured  hour  by  hour  over  the  face  and  pose  of 
the  bent  head,  laboured  and  failed :  upon  the  fourth  day  a 
change  came  in  this  wise. 

Through  the  forenoon  Lucia  had  sat  as  usual,  but  at  the 
noon  dinner  had  begged  excusal  for  the  remainder  of  the 
day,  giving  no  reason.  Nor  had  Fieravanti  regretted  the 
break.  With  rest  the  paralysing  sense  of  impotency  might 
pass.  It  was  just  possible  that,  by  a  paradox,  through 
over  much  thought  clearness  of  vision  was  being  blurred. 


170  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

That  the  break  might  be  the  more  complete,  he  left  the 
scarpellini  to  their  chiselling  and  took  the  road  to  the  vil- 
lage. Lippo  was  not  forgotten.  Having  failed  with  Fal- 
dora  might  he  hope  to  rouse  Brettinoro?  But  midway  a 
bush  by  the  wayside  wakened  a  memory  of  Piero  which 
turned  his  feet  towards  the  lad's  house.  Nor  was  it  the 
memory  only — when  sick  of  heart  or  sorry  there  is  no 
such  medicine  as  some  greater  need,  or  a  sorrow  which  is 
yet  more  sorrowful. 

The  house — more  hovel  than  house — was  one  of  the 
poorest  in  the  poor  outskirts  of  the  little  town,  a  single 
room  with  a  garret  overhead.  It  was  of  a  type  known  of 
old  to  the  maker  of  saints,  himself  born  to  poverty — the 
wide  bed  where  more  than  one  generation  had  passed  the 
gates  of  life  and  of  Greater  Life  would  stand  in  one  far 
corner,  raised  a  foot  or  two  above  the  floor  of  beaten 
earth ;  there  would  be  a  rude  table,  a  rough  bench  or  two, 
a  stool  maybe,  a  charcoal  brazier  with  its  swung  cooking- 
pot,  an  oaken  chest,  though  to  poverty  that  was  doubtful, 
a  cupboard  against  the  wall  and,  possibly,  hanks  of  dried 
herbs  hung  from  the  ceiling. 

The  broad  door,  which  was  also  the  sole  window  ex- 
cept for  a  small  grating  high  in  the  wall,  stood  wide  open 
and  Fieravanti  would  have  entered  without  the  ceremony 
of  knocking  had  not  Lucia  Faldora's  voice  stayed  him  on 
the  threshold.  She  was  singing  softly,  a  crooning,  rush- 
ing song,  soothing  sound  rather  than  words;  then,  very 
quietly,  very  gently,  with  hardly  a  break  in  the  crooning 
note,  he  heard  her  speak. 

"She  sleeps,  I  think." 

"Always  you  could  quiet  her,  Madonna."  The  answer- 
ing voice  was  less  soft  but  no  less  subdued.  "Sleep's  her 
medicine,  and  not  even  I  could  rock  her  to  rest.  If  she 
lives,  Madonna " 

"But  she  will — ehe  must.    Oh  pray  God,  yes — yes,"  and 


THE  FINDING  OF  AN  INSPIRATION      171 

again  the  quiet,  hushing  wordless  song,  infinitely  gentle, 
infinitely  soothing,  reached  Fieravanti  as  he  crept  for- 
ward. 

With  the  sun  to  the  west  he  cast  no  shadow  through  the 
south-turned  doorway,  but  the  strong  light  left  no  part 
of  the  square  room  unsearched,  revealing  the  bare  needs 
of  life  he  had  pictured  in  his  mind.  But  neither  the  bare- 
ness, nor  the  scrupulous  care  which  gave  the  bareness 
that  dignity  which  the  most  pinching  poverty  can  always 
assert,  were  heeded:  even  the  mother,  leaning  forward 
from  the  corner  of  a  settle,  her  hands  clasped  between  her 
knees,  her  lined  face  set  in  the  stress  of  anxious  suspense, 
held  his  gaze  only  for  an  instant. 

How  else,  when  Lucia  Faldora  faced  him  in  just  such  a 
pose,  just  such  a  grouping,  as  his  first  conception  of  the 
Great  Mother  ?  There  was  the  watchful  face  stooped  above 
the  child  of  his  imagining,  the  small  head  caught  in  the 
hollow  of  an  arm,  the  small  body  in  the  patches  of  the 
poor  held  comforted  against  the  warm  breast:  Lucia  Fal- 
dora, but  a  new  Lucia,  a  Lucia  he  had  never  yet  seen,  a 
Lucia  scarcely  even  imagined,  a  Lucia  with  the  ice  melted 
from  the  heart  of  tender,  womanly  sympathy  and  the 
stony  mask  of  pride  loosed  from  the  face. 

A  saint  in  the  making?  Better  than  that,  greatly  bet- 
ter— a  soul  that  did  not  know  its  own  saintlikeness,  a  spirit 
that  forgot  itself  in  the  needs  of  another,  a  deep-hearted 
mother-yearning  worthy  to  guide  small  feet  to  greater 
heights  than  up  the  empty  stairways  of  life,  a  woman  meet 
for  a  man's  love.  The  first  conception  must  return;  he 
would  throw  aside  his  four  days  labour,  the  labour  that 
had  failed,  and  out  of  this  reincarnation — Then,  as  the 
child  in  her  arm  stirred,  sighing  the  deep  breath  of  con- 
tented weariness  as  she  slept,  there  broke  across  the  stooped 
face  a  sudden  exquisite  softness,  the  full,  strong  lips 
trembled  in  response  to  some  deep  chord  within,  trembled 


172  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

and  fell  into  form  as  if  they  whispered,  "Come  unto  me," 
and  a  smile  tender  and  pitiful,  a  smile  which  was  less  a 
smile  than  a  light  upon  the  face,  made  a  glory  whose 
revelation  set  the  heart  of  the  maker  of  saints  shivering. 

The  first  conception?  No !  There  should  be  no  change! 
He  knew  now  where  he  had  failed,  he  knew  now  how  to 
catch  that  soul  of  motherhood  which  is  love,  and  yet  some- 
thing more  than  love  in  its  tender  wistfulness,  and  so  fix 
it  in  the  marble  that  no  clod  could  be  so  cloddish  as  to 
be  unmoved.  Shaken,  he  stirred  and  the  girl  glanced  up, 
unhasting  and  with  no  break  in  the  watchful  care.  Nor 
was  there  any  confusion  in  her  eyes  as  they  met  his,  the 
wistful  tenderness  still  lingered  and  again  Fieravanti 
shivered  to  the  very  heart.  Carlo  Faldora !  God  in 
heaven !  he  cried  dumbly,  what  should  he  do  that  a  Carlo 
Faldora  might  not  wreck  the  tenderness,  nor  set  a  careless 
foot  on  the  love  which  gave  it  strength  ? 

"A  summer  fever,"  she  said  softly.  "For  two  days  she 
has  not  slept,  the  poverina,  but  now  I  think  at  last  all's 
well." 

Duller  of  ear,  the  mother  had  not  heard;  now  she 
turned,  staring.  "The  signor  of  the  gold  piece,"  she  whis- 
pered. "Signorina,  you  heard  of  it?  This  is  the  signor 
himself/' 

"Yes,  I  heard."  Such  a  smile  as  Fieravanti  had  never 
yet  seen  broke  over  her  face,  so  friendly-warm  was  it.  "It 
was  well  done,  Ser  Marco." 

"If  so,  what  of  this?"  answered  Fieravanti,  his  gaze 
shifting  to  the  sleeping  child.  Whereat  the  mother,  in 
the  hot-blooded  impulse  of  her  race,  laid  a  hand  on  the 
girl's  knee  as  she  cried,  always  softly: 

"It  is  life,  signor,  life.  Nothing  I,  the  mother  look 
you,  nothing  I  could  do  would  soothe  her.  Always  she 
moaned  and  wailed,  tossing,  tossing,  tossing;  yet  look 
now !  Look !" 


THE  FINDING  OF  AN  INSPIRATION      173 

"The  Great  Mother,"  said  Fieravanti,  and  at  the  un- 
conscious warmth  in  his  voice  the  girl  stooped  again  above 
the  child  in  her  arms.  Why?  She  could  not  have  told; 
but  there  are  instincts  in  nature  which  are  obeyed  without 
being  understood.  "The  Great  Mother!'*  he  repeated. 
"Madonna,  you  need  sit  no  more — all's  caught  beyond 
forgetting;  nature  is  greater  than  any  man's  imaginings. 
Mother,  is  there  aught  needed  for  the  little  one?" 

"With  the  Madonna  here  ?  No,  signor,  no !  Pray  God, 
we'll  see  her  own  in  her  arms  some  day!"  But  if  either 
of  the  listeners  echoed  the  prayer  neither  said  Amen ! 

Certainly  Fieravanti,  as,  after  a  few  more  whispered 
words  of  cheer  and  thankfulness,  he  returned  to  the  Casa 
more  swiftly  than  he  had  come  out,  and  with  a  new  riot 
of  blood  through  his  veins,  had  no  such  prayer  in  his 
heart.  How  was  it  possible,  with  the  shadow  of  Carlo 
Faldora  black  across  the  path? 

Having  turned  both  'Tonio  and  'Sandro  out  from  the 
work-room  he  stood  a  long  five  minutes  before  the  clay 
with  closed  eyes,  recalling  with  all  his  strength  of  will 
and  memory  that  revelation  which  would  turn  failure  into 
consummate  achievement,  then,  the  vision  clear,  the  mental 
grasp  strong  and  firm,  the  conception  of  the  Great  Mother, 
motherhood  incarnate,  motherhood  whose  heart  of  love 
overflows  in  wistful,  solicitous  pity,  and  yet  tastes  through 
foreknowledge  of  suffering  the  sorrows  which  must  be 
while  it  gives  praise  for  the  joys,  took  life  in  the  clay 
under  the  subtle  touch  of  comprehension. 

Nor  with,  as  it  were,  the  foundations  laid  was  it  so 
long  in  the  doing.  Here  the  smoothing  of  a  hardness, 
there  the  rounding  of  a  curve,  the  widening  of  a  nostril, 
the  shortening  of  a  lip,  the  deepening  of  a  line,  touches 
so  little  in  themselves  that  each  was  nothing,  or  almost 
nothing,  and  yet  the  whole  a  transformation,  the  miracle 
of  a  soul  breaking  through  clay  to  life.  TJnhasting  he 


174  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

worked,  unceasing  save  for  a  stern  reckoning  of  effect,  a 
yet  sterner  matching  with  the  vision  always  clear  before 
his  mind,  and  when  at  last  he  ended  he  knew  that  it  was 
good. 

More  than  that.  If  opposites  teach  so  do  similitudes. 
He  knew  now  where  his  Magdalene  had  failed.  There, 
too,  there  had  been,  there  was,  beauty  cold  as  there  had 
been  cold  beauty  in  this  clay;  but  Luca  Melone  was  right, 
the  soul  is  the  last  of  life  to  be  born,  and  neither  with  the 
fingers  nor  the  chisel  had  he  caught  the  soul  of  the  woman 
who  had  loved  much.  There  had  been  the  failure:  that 
which  had  worked  the  Magdalene's  redemption  was  miss- 
ing, the  tenderness  which  needs  must  come  through  loving 
much.  Now  through  Lucia  Faldora  he  had  found  it  as 
Melone  had  said  he  would.  To  give  a  soul  to  the  marble 
would  be  less  easy  than  to  this  clay ;  but  it  could  be  done : 
His  Grandeur  would  yet  say,  "It  is  the  Magdalene's  self 
in  saintship,"  and  no  longer  have  any  reservation  of 
doubt. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

"TO  SAVE  MADONNA  LUCIA* 

His  hands  locked,  with  chin  on  breast  and  brows  drawn, 
the  Maker  of  Saints  studied  the  face  looking  downward 
into  his  from  under  the  thin  wimple  whose  folds,  falling 
to  the  shoulders  as  yet  scarcely  suggested,  merged  into  the 
clay  mass.  The  birth  of  a  soul?  here  in  the  clay?  the 
Magdalene's  in  the  marble?  Yes,  it  was  no  less  a  miracle, 
but  how  wrought  ?  Through  his  art?  his  inspiration  ?  De- 
cisively Fieravanti  said  No,  to  both.  Whence,  then? 
"She  loved  much!"  Through  love? 

Yes;  there  the  Magdalene  found  both  herself  and  her 
redemption,  but  while  that  was  true  of  her  what  of  Lucia 
Faldora?  Yes,  and  of  Lucia  Faldora  also,  since  only 
through  love  is  that  greatness  we  call  soul  stirred  to  life, 
but  love  of  what?  of  whom?  The  child,  the  little  Marietta 
caught  to  her  breast?  "She  is  good  to  the  poor  she  comes 
— sometimes,"  Piero  had  said.  Sometimes?  Does  such 
a  stirring  to  life  come  through  the  haps  and  chances  of  a 
sometimes?  Scarcely;  and  yet — and  yet 

"Dio  mio!"  It  was  Father  Bernardo's  voice  at  his 
shoulder.  "Dio  mio,  Dio  mio,"  he  said  three  times  over 
and  stood  silent  as  Fieravanti  stepped  aside.  Then, 
"Lucia !  Yes,  it  is  Lucia  herself  and  yet  not  Lucia,  it  is 
more  than  Lucia,  greater  than — No,  not  greater  than  Lucia 
but  greater  than  I  dreamed  she  was.  Ah,  Ser  Marco,  we 
do  not  always  know  our  dearest.  That  is  Lucia  and — The 
Mother?  Yes,  yes,  yes,  but  the  Mother-to-be,  the  Mother 
of  the  Annunciation.  Wait  here  my  son,  wait  until  I 

175 
• 


176  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

bring  Count  Ascanio  to  see  this  miracle — for  which  God 
be  thanked!" 

But  he  had  scarcely  left  the  workshop  when  the  door 
was  pushed  open  and  left  open — that  was  Carlo  Faldora's 
way.  Always  it  had  been  a  fret  to  the  sculptor  that  he 
could  not  reckon  on  being  left  alone  with  his  labour;  at 
any  moment  some  one  or  other  might  break  in:  it  had 
been  the  priest,  now  it  was  Carlo  Faldora. 

Crunching  noisily  underfoot  the  marble  chips  scattered 
by  the  scarpellini  in  their  roughing  out  of  the  block  he 
stood  a  moment  before  the  clay  with  pursed  lips.  Always 
the  model  stirred  the  unclean  spirit  in  him,  at  times  to 
some  ironic  sarcasm,  some  sourness  which  in  its  itch  to 
hurt  hinted  more  than  the  carping  words,  or  else  to  a 
tolerant  patronising  approval  which  Fieravanti  found  yet 
harder  to  endure  with  patience.  Now  remembering  the 
purpose  which  had  brought  him  to  the  workroom,  he 
strove  to  put  a  curb  upon  his  temper. 

"Um!  Good,  yes,  good — but  is  it  Madonna  Lucia? 
Never  have  I  seen  her  like  that !  You  are  more  fortunate, 

Ser  Marco,  but  then  you  are "  Hastily  he  checked  the 

accustomed  gibe,  substituting  smoother  words,  "You  are 
the  Seer,  the  maker  of  saints " 

"I  see  nothing  which  is  not  there  for  all  to  see." 

"Um — perhaps  not;  no!  of  course  not."  Eemembering 
suddenly  that  there  was  a  point  to  be  gained  he  grew 
friendly,  laying  a  familiar  hand  on  Fieravanti's  arm  with 
the  intimate  gesture  of  one  who  grows  confidential.  "If 
that  is  the  true  Lucia — well !  a  saint  has  her  use  for  clods 
in  a  chapel,  but  for  a  man's  wife,  day  in  day  out,  the  Great 
Mother  would  be — Ah !  I  see !  the  mother  of  one's  chil- 
dren? Yes,  yes,  that  is  different  and  explains  everything. 
A  little  saintship  is  no  harm  for  that,  and  there  are  al- 
ways warmer-blooded  women  in  the  world." 

"In  Forli,  for  instance?"    Fieravanti's  cold  distaste  was 


"TO  SAVE  MADONNA  LUCIA"        177 

profound,  but  Faldora,  intent  on  his  yrn  purpose,  failed 
to  note  the  censure.  He  had  been  raking  his  brains  to 
find  excuse  for  such  an  intimate  association  as  might  lead 
to  the  salving  of  his  doubts.  Now,  stirred  by  Fieravanti's 
last  words,  a  method  suggested  itself  which,  with  char- 
acteristic shameless  audacity,  he  seized  upon. 

"Forli?  Yes,  in  Forli.  For  instance,  were  I  of  your 
trade  I  would  choose  Amata  Capponi  as  my  model.  By 
Holy  Paul !  there's  little  of  the  saint  in  Amata  Capponi. 
Ser  Marco,  you  have  been  mewed  up  long  enough  in  this 
workshop  of  yours.  Come  and  throw  a  cast  of  dice  with  me 
and  while  we  play  we'll  talk  of  the  Castello  and  Amata 
Capponi." 

"No,  Signor  Faldora."  With  an  abrupt  movement 
Fieravanti  shook  off  the  hand  still  lying  on  his  sleeve. 
"Neither  one  nor  the  other.  Your  luck  with  dice  is  too — 
notorious." 

"Notorious?  Notorious?"  Faldora  drew  back.  Almost 
— the  wish  being  father  to  the  thought — he  had  persuaded 
himself  that  the  exposure  at  the  Castello  was  unknown; 
now,  in  the  surprise  of  the  disillusion,  there  was  more  fear 
than  wrath  in  his  blustering  protest.  "Do  you  dare  to 
hint — do  you  presume — By  my  name,  Messer  Fiera- 
vanti—" 

"Swear  by  something  you  have  not  dishonoured,  some- 
thing you  have  not  dragged  in  the  mud  for  all  the  world 
to  spit  contempt  upon,  but  see  you  swear  no  lie." 

"Lie?"  In  a  flash  Lippo's  advice  and  his  own  secret 
jest,  sword  against  chisel,  came  back  to  him.  Here  wa* 
his  quarrel  ready  made.  Not  even  so  punctilious  a  host 
as  his  uncle  could  complain  if  the  lie  direct  were  met  with 
a  sword-thrust.  Why,  the  honour  of  his  House  demanded 
it !  With  a  jerk  ho  half  drew  the  blade  at  his  hip  then 
drove  it  ringing  into  its  sheath  again.  "By  all  the  devila 
you'll  answer  me  for  this!" 


178  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

"No !  Let  him  answer  me !"  From  the  open  door,  be- 
yond whose  frame  stood  Father  Bernardo,  his  soutane  a 
blotch  of  darkness  in  the  shadows  of  the  passage,  Count 
Ascanio  strode  forward.  "Our  name  in  the  mud?  Ser 
Marco,  if  you  were  not  a  guest,  old  as  I  am  I  would  drive 
the  lie " 

"Illustrissimo,  this  is  between  Signer  Carlo  and  me." 

"But  I  say  no!  I  am  Faldora  of  Pesaro,  and  while  I 
live  the  honour  of  our  name  is  in  my  keeping.  Being 
who  you  are  and  what  you  are  I  cannot  lay  my  own  hands 
upon  you,  but  for  the  lie  my  scullions " 

"But  if  it  is  no  lie?"  A  maker  of  saints,  but  no  meek 
saint  himself,  Fieravanti's  voice  rose  in  turn  as  he  again 
broke  in  upon  the  hot  torrent  of  indignant  passion.  "Lie? 
Take  care,  Illustrissimo;  the  word  is  hard  to  swallow." 

"Yet— swallow  it!" 

"You  mistake.  It  is  you — you,  Faldora  of  Pesaro  who 
must  swallow  it  when  you  know  the  truth." 

"The  truth?    In  God's  name,  man,  what  truth?" 

"Ask  Girolamo  Ordelaffi." 

"Ordelaffi  ?  I  ask  an  Ordelaffi  if  my  honour,  the  honour 
of  Faldora,  stands  where  it  stood  in  Forli?  Impossible! 
But  what  should  such  as  you  know  of  what  belongs  to  my 
own  respect !  What  truth,  I  say,  what  truth  ?" 

"Ask  Signer  Faldora." 

"Carlo?"  Eound  he  swung,  his  fierce  old  eyes  aflame, 
passion  hot  in  the  patches  of  dull  red  burning  the  cheek 
bones  of  the  lean  face.  Then  as  he  read  defiance  rather 
than  indignation  in  Carlo  Faldora's  scowl  he  drew  back 
a  step,  breathing  hard,  and  there  was  silence  until  he 
whispered  to  himself  "In  the  mud?  Our  name  in  the 
mud?  Carlo — 'Carlo,  what  is  this  he  says?" 

"A  lie,"  answered  Carlo  Faldora,  but  sullenly  and  with- 
out assertion  and  again  there  was  silence.  Presently  As- 
canio Faldora  broke  it. 


"TO  SAVE  MADONNA  LUCIA"         179 

"Fetch  Lucia,"  he  said,  speaking  curtly  across  his  shoul- 
der to  Father  Bernardo  in  the  background. 

"Xo,  Illustrissimo,  no,"  protested  Fieravanti,  "This  is 
between  man  and  man:  why  force  our  quarrel  on  the 
Madonna  ?" 

"Leave  us  to  cleanse  our  honour  our  own  way.  Between 
man  and  man?  No!  It  touches  my  grand-daughter  as  it 
touches  me.  Either  she  marries  Carlo  Faldora  to-day  or 
— Go,  Father,  go  as  I  bid  you."  Nor  did  he  or  either 
speak  again  until  the  priest  returned,  bringing  Lucia 
Faldora. 

Closing  the  door  he  stood  aside,  ready  to  intervene 
when  intervention  would  be  service.  A  wise  man,  Father 
Bernardo,  he  knew  there  are  times  when  men's  passions  are 
best  left  to  burn  themselves  out,  let  scorch  what  they  will, 
times  when  peace-mongering  is  fuel  to  fire  or  a  blast  to 
spread  the  flames  roaring  yet  more  fiercely.  For  the  mo- 
ment, silence  was  his  truest  friendship.  As  to  the  girl, 
she  looked  uncomprehendingly  from  one  to  the  other  but, 
if  any  had  had  eyes  to  see,  it  was  on  Fieravanti  that  the 
troubled  questioning  rested  longest.  To  him  Ascanio  Fal- 
dora turned. 

"Xow,  your  accusation  and  your  proof?" 

"As  I  said  before  I  say  again,  for  both  ask  Ordelaffi." 
The  answer  was  as  curt  and  as  cold  as  the  question. 

"Ask  Ordelaffi !  Oh,  yes,  ask  Ordelaffi !  Ordelaffi  is  in 
Forli !"  and  Carlo  Faldora  laughed,  jeering.  Catching  at 
his  one  straw  of  hope  he  had  decided  on  his  line  of  ac- 
tion. To  kill  the  truth  was  impossible,  but  he  might 
choke  it  silent  for  four  days  and  in  four  days  much  might 
happen — much  might  happen  that  very  hour. 

"It  is  for  me  to  speak."  His  uncle's  voice  had  lost 
nothing  of  its  cold  curtness.  "Leave  Ordelaffi  aside  and 
put  your  accusation  in  plain  words,  Messer  Fieravanti." 

"This,  then— when  in  Forli  in  March  last  he  played 


180  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

with  cogged  dice  at  the  Castello,  had  them  broken  before 
his  eyes  and  was  flung  out  into  the  street  as  a  cheat." 

"A  lie,"  said  young  Faldora,  this  time  between  shut 
teeth.  "A  lie— a  lie." 

"Ask  Ordelaffi,"  repeated  Fieravanti. 

"How  did  you  know  this?"  If  possible  Faldora's  voice 
was  colder,  sterner. 

"I  was  present  in  the  Castello,  heard  Conti  inform 
Ordelaffi,  saw — the  door  close." 

"In  March?  If  this  be  true  you  have  known  it  almost 
three  months  and  yet  have  kept  silence — why?" 

"I  was  a  stranger.  Even  now  it  is  surprise  that  has 
dragged  it  to  light.  For  one  reason  only  would  I  have 
spoken." 

"And  that  reason?" 

"To  save  Madonna  Lucia." 

Four  words  curtly  dropped,  spoken  harshly  even,  yet 
they  set  the  girl's  heart  fluttering.  Vigilantly,  perplex- 
edly, she  had  been  following  the  give  and  take  of  brusque 
question  and  no  less  brusque  reply,  now  the  unexpected 
use  of  her  name  startled  her.  So  this  was  what  was  in 
his  mind  that  day  by  the  sundial  when,  as  he  had  said,  she 
had  so  scourged  him  with  her  scorn  that  he  was  driven 
to  protest  that  Lucia  Faldora  was  nothing  to  him?  At 
the/  moment  that  had  seemed  natural,  necessary ;  it  was 
self-evident,  a  matter  of  course  that  a  Faldora  could  be 
nothing  to  a  Fieravanti  in  the  sense  in  which  any  woman 
is  much  to  any  man,  but  now  the  memory  hurt.  Not  that 
it  was  any  less  a  matter  of  course,  not  that  a  Marco  Fiera- 
vanti could  ever  be  anything  to  a  Lucia  Faldora,  but — 
but — she  had  never  met  just  such  a  man,  and 

Lifting  her  eyes  to  his  she  faced  him  steadily.  With 
the  air  so  charged  with  passion  it  was  natural  that  a 
flush  should  warm  her  cheeks,  but — did  love  truly  come 
first  ?  before  land  and  blood  and  pride  of  race  ?  Instantly, 


"TO  SAVE  MADONNA  LUCIA"         181 

and  it  was  all,  as  it  were,  in  the  illumination  of  a  flash 
which  flares  its  revelation  for  an  instant  then  dies  to 
darkness,  she  brushed  aside  the  question  unanswered,  or 
if  there  was  an  undetermined  answer  it  was  that  to  a 
man  who  held  her  as  nothing  love  certainly  did  not  come 
first ;  not  the  pride  of  race  but  the  pride  of  her  womanhood 
made  that  clear.  Yet  he  had  taken  thought  for  her :  that 
far  she  was  in  his  debt. 

"Thank  you,  signor,"  she  said,  as  softly  and  yet  as  dis- 
tinctly as,  at  the  supper-table,  once  before  she  had  used 
the  words.  Ascanio  Faldora  allowed  no  opportunity  for 
reply. 

"Leave  Madonna  Lucia's  name  aside.  Now  that — I  use 
your  words — surprise  has  dragged  this — this — assertion 
to  light,  what  proof  have  you?" 

"My  word,  Count  Ascanio." 

"Urn — your  word  against  Carlo's?  Your  word 
against " 

"My  oath,"  said  Carlo  Faldora,  clinging  to  his  hope  of 
four  days  respite.  "A  lie,"  he  asserted,  his  voice  firmer. 
"By  our  name,  a  lie !" 

"That  oath  does  not  hold.  How  could  it?  If  this  vile 
story  be  true  you  are  swearing  by  that  which  you  have 
fouled.  No !  Swear  by  the  Holy  Rood  of  Loreto,  whereon 
who  swears  falsely  is  damned,  and  I  shall  believe  you — 
your  oath  against  a  guest's  word." 

There  was  a  pause  as  Carlo  Faldora  hesitated,  shooting 
a  glance  at  Count  Ascanio's  set  face.  Passion  had  passed 
or  was  held  in  check,  but  the  lines  scored  by  time  upon 
forehead  and  temple  seemed  deeper,  notably  deeper,  than 
an  hour  before,  and  the  lean  face  thinner  at  the  mouth; 
then  he  raised  an  open  hand.  But  before  words  came 
Father  Bernardo  spoke :  as  he  had  once  said ;  he  knew  his 
Carlo— a  little. 

"Not  alone  that :  but  whoso  swears  falsely  on  the  Holy 


182  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

Rood  dies  within  the  year;  that  is  well  known  and  proved 
a  score  of  times.  Now  swear,  my  son." 

For  a  moment  the  open  hand  wavered  in  the  air,  ghak- 
ing,  then  it  fell  slowly. 

"You  have  my  oath  already — I'll  swear  no  more." 

Through  the  silence  Faldora  drew  a  heavy  sigh,  so  heavy 
it  seemed  to  pass  from  him  in  a  shudder;  but  no  new 
storm  of  passion  swept  him.  If  he  stirred  at  all  it  was 
to  stiffen  yet  more  rigidly  upright  as  a  greyness  stole 
creeping  across  the  weather-bitten  tan  of  his  cheeks;  once 
or  twice  he  swallowed  as  if  some  dryness  in  the  throat 
choked  him,  once  or  twice,  too,  his  fingers  gripped  and 
loosed  a  fold  of  cloth  at  his  thigh.  Slowly  he  turned  to 
Father  Bernardo,  who  stood  nearest  the  door. 

"Father,  of  your  courtesy  order  Signor  Roverella's  horse 
to  be  made  ready.  He  is  leaving  without  delay/'  Then 
he  turned  his  back  on  Carlo  Faldora. 

Eoverella?  Roverella  was  the  name  of  Carlo  Faldora's 
mother  before  her  marriage;  never  again  did  Faldora  of 
Pesaro  speak  of  his  nephew  by  the  name  he  had  stained. 

Not  for  an  instant  did  the  priest  hesitate.  If,  before, 
silence  had  been  wisdom  to  attempt  a  patching  now  was 
to  pull  the  rent  wider.  But  Carlo  Faldora,  as  he  followed 
from  the  workshop,  paused  and  turned  as  he  had  turned 
at  the  door  of  Ordelaffi's  reception  hall. 

"There's  an  end  to  your  Great  Mother !"  he  said,  sneer- 
ing, "but  not  an  end  to  Faldora  of  Pesaro.  I'll  be  that 
yet!  Great  Mother?  Perhaps  that  too!  But  she  may 
thank  God  if  men  call  her  wife!"  and  with  a  fling  of  the 
hand  he  was  gone. 

Ignoring  the  outburst  as  if  it  had  never  been  Count 
Ascanio  turned  to  the  clay.  "An  inspiration,  Ser  Marco," 
he  said,  slowly  nodding  a  grave  approval.  "Surely  it  is 
the  Great  Mother  herself — surely — surely." 

Thus,  after  the  manner  of  strong  men,  he  retied  his 


"TO  SAVE  MADONNA  LUCIA"         183 

broken  threads.  But  Fieravanti,  standing  silent  by  his 
side,  asked  himself,  What  of  the  small  feet  which  were 
to  waken  the  echoes  of  the  empty  stairs?  The  grey,  stern 
face  of  Faldora  of  Pesaro  gave  no  reply  to  the  question: 
though  the  hopes  of  his  House  lay  wrecked  beyond  all 
possibility  of  rebuilding  he  gave  no  sign.  But  that  was 
Faldora  of  Pesaro. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

REVELATION 

WHEN  Fieravanti  had  said  to  Lucia  Faldora,  You  need 
sit  no  more,  he  had  overrun  the  truth  in  the  enthusiasm  of 
the  moment.  For  the  face,  no;  but  there  yet  remained 
much  to  be  done  in  the  modelling  of  the  outstretched 
arms  and  hands  of  invitation — especially  the  hands. 
These,  with  their  slender  grace,  their  hint  of  power,  their 
beauty  in  strength,  must  be  as  revealing  as  the  face  of  the 
Madonna  herself;  and  so  through  the  days  which  followed 
the  sittings  continued  as  before. 

Yet  not  quite  as  before.  No  such  crisis  could  come  and 
go  and  leave  life  as  it  had  been.  Therefore  there  was  at 
once  a  new  bond  and  a  new  barrier;  but  of  the  full  bond 
neither  was  conscious,  each  believing  the  other  free,  while 
the  woman  was  stone  cold  as  never  before.  That  was 
natural  since  two  things  shamed  her  grievously — that  she, 
Lucia  Faldora,  should  love  a  peasant  born  Marco  Fiera- 
vanti was  bad,  but  that  she  should  love  a  man  who  gave 
her  no  second  thought,  love  him  even  after  he  had  said, 
What  is  Lucia  Faldora  to  me !  was  infinitely  worse,  sham- 
ing both  her  Faldora  pride  and  her  womanhood.  So,  being 
at  least  honest  to  herself  and  not  denying  that  love  had 
stolen  on  her  unawares,  the  ice  froze  as  never  before  lest 
through  the  warmth  of  the  comprehension  born  out  of 
little  Marietta's  need  it  should  thaw  into  revelation. 

It  was  a  strange  situation,  each  stirred  to  the  depths  by 
the  other's  nearness  but  only  in  the  depths;  each  passion- 

184 


REVELATION  185 

ately  aware  of  the  other's  clearness  yet  coldly  choking 
back  the  knowledge  lest  even  for  an  instant  it  should  look 
out  o'  window,  and  dishonour  that  reserve  which  each  held 
to  he  true  honour. 

So,  coldly,  indifferently,  with  neither  apparent  interest 
nor  open  repugnance,  she  submitted  her  hands  to  his 
touch,  holding  her  breath  the  while  lest,  quickening,  it 
should  betray  how  that  touch  thrilled  her ;  and  he,  on  his 
part,  touched  so  lightly,  so  indifferently,  that  the  reluc- 
tant finger-tips  hinted  distaste,  the  compulsion  of  a  neces- 
sary task,  fearing  every  instant  that  control  might  slip 
and  the  passing  touch  quicken  to  the  caress  he  hungered 
after  yet  steeled  himself  against.  That  there  should  be  a 
Fieravanti  pride  as  strong  as  any  Faldora  arrogance  of 
birth  would  have  astonished  her,  but  so  it  was.  And  these 
repressions  were  the  more  difficult,  the  more  needful,  be- 
cause they  were  now  alone  as  never  at  the  first;  'Tonio  and 
'Sandro  having  roughed-out  the  marble  as  far  as  the 
Master  would  permit  there  was  nothing  to  keep  them  in 
the  workshop. 

But  for  the  draperies  no  sitting  was  required,  and  so 
Fieravanti  was  solitary  when,  on  the  fifth  day  after  Carlo 
Faldora's  exposure,  Tribalda  closed  the  door  of  the  work- 
shop behind  him  with  care  unusual  in  the  Captain  of  the 
Guard.  A  close  friendship  had  grown  up  between  these 
two,  so  close  and  understanding  that  Fieravanti,  with  the 
acuteness  of  perception  which  lay  so  near  to  the  roots  of 
his  power,  ceasing  work  waited  expectantly. 

"Bad  news?" 

"The  worst — Young  Faldora  has  joined  Lippo." 

Wiping  his  hands  with  a  cloth  which  had  lain  across  a 
shoulder  Fieravanti  flung  it  aside.  The  action  was  me- 
chanical, but  to  Tribalda  it  carried  a  significance. 

"To  Lippo  ?    Then  at  last  he  has  turned  honest" 

"Honest,  do  you  call  it  ?    With  Lippo,  and  honert?* 


186  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

"To  be  an  open  scoundrel  is  a  kind  of  honesty.  To 
Lippo?  Then  less  than  ever  can  I  hope  that  Count  As- 
canio  will  make  an  end  of  that  cruel  devil,  as  Margotti 
truly  called  him.  Margotti !  God's  name,  Tribalda,  think 
of  it — under  the  stones  of  their  own  burnt  roof  because 
Lippo  said,  Leave  them  there!  and  neither  the  Church 
nor  Faldora  of  Pesaro  will  stir  a  finger!" 

"I  am  not  so  sure."  Tribalda  spoke  slowly.  Clearly  he 
was  very  troubled. 

"But  how  can  he,  now  that  Carlo  Faldora — — " 

"Just  because  of  Carlo  Faldora.  I  know  the  Illustris- 
simo  as  you  cannot.  Pride,  Fieravanti,  pride  may  move 
him.  Why?  To  show  the  world  that  Faldora  of  Pesaro 
sets  justice  before  his  own  flesh." 

"That  is  why  you  said  your  news  was  the  worst  pos- 
sible?" 

"No,  not  just  that"  Tribalda  paused,  the  lines  deepen- 
ing on  his  grave  face.  Commonly  he  took  life  lightly,  did 
Tribalda,  but  now  the  burden  lay  heavy  upon  him. 

"Why  then?  Oh,  if  it  is  Faldora's  private  affairs  say 
nothing." 

"If  there  is  cause  for  fear  at  all  it  will  not  be  private 
for  long!  I  always  thought  Carlo  Faldora  had  the  com- 
ing years  in  his  mind,  the  time  when  he  would  lord  it  in 
his  uncle's  place — fill  that  place  he  never  could — but  now 
— now  I  am  wondering  if  of  late,  since  that  damning  night 
at  Forli,  he  has  not  been  preparing  for  what  may  come." 

"And  what  may  come?  and  where?" 

"Lippo — here." 

"Lippo?  Here?  And  Carlo  Faldora  preparing  it?" 
Uncomprehending  Fieravanti  shook  his  head.  "I  do  not 
understand  you,  Tribalda." 

"Carlo  Faldora  was  to  succeed  his  uncle,  Carlo  Faldora 
was  to  marry  Madonna  Lucia:  is  Carlo  Faldora  the  man 
to  lose — not  the  Madonna,  there  was  no  love  there,  but  to 


REVELATION  187 

lose  Faldora  and  all  Faldora  stands  for?  By  all  your 
saints,  Fieravanti,  no!  And  now  he  has  Lippo  at  his 
back — Lippo  who  burned  the  children  with  the  mother." 

"Lippo?  You  know  how  I  have  tried  to  rouse  Brctti- 
noro  against  him  and  failed,  but  let  Lippo  touch  Faldora 
and  from  Arzano  to  the  sea,  from  Imola  to  Ancona,  all 
Romagna  would  rise " 

"Let  it  rise !  With  such  a  bribe  as  Carlo  Faldora  could 
pay — if  he  succeeded — Lippo  and  all  his  scoundrels  could 
disappear  with  full  pockets.  Disappear?  There  would  be 
no  need!  There's  a  score  of  lordlings,  great  and  small, 
who  would  hire  them  and  keep  them  busy  in  this  cockpit 
of  ours." 

"If  he  succeeded — yes!  But  Faldora  is  no  peasant's 
house  to  be  burnt  at  the  end  of  a  night's  ride.  How  many 
men  have  you?" 

"That's  not  the  question,  but — How  many  can  I  trust? 
Always  we  know  Lippo  had  his  spies  among  us :  you  heard 
the  Count  himself  at  the  supper-table?  Then,  as  I  said, 
Carlo  Faldora  has  been  busy  of  late.  God  may  know  who 
is  loyal,  I  do  not !  Not  for  certain,  that  is.  Some,  oh 
yes,  some  I  can  count  upon,  but,  Fieravanti,  it  rots  the 
very  spirit  to  know  there's  treason  at  your  elbow." 

"But  let  us  have  sense,  Tribalda,  let  us  have  sense. 
Carlo  Faldora  would  damn  himself.  Suppose  he  failed " 

"Yes,"  said  the  Captain  of  the  Guard  grimly,  "Without 

doubt  he  is  damned  if  he  fails.    In  our  cockpit  failure  is 

the  unforgivable  offence!     Failure  damns!     But   if  he 

succeeds?     Think,  Fieravanti,  think.     Is  there  a  single 

city  strung  along  the  Via  Emilia  which  has  not  changed 

rs   through   blood   and   violence?     Not  one!     Son 

st  father  at  times,  and  who  has  made  protest  against 

the  parricide?     No  man!     Come  nearest  home.     Take 

Forli?    Is  it  twenty  years  since  Ordelaffi — Ordelaffi  with 

no  more  claim  to  hold  Forli  than  I  have  to  hold  Faldora — 


188  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

is  it  twenty  years,  I  say,  since  Ordelaffi  drove  out  Faggi- 
uola?  Who  protested?  Who  drew  sword  for  Faggiuola? 
No  man!  No!  From  Arzano  to  the  sea,  from  Imola  to 
Ancona,  we  are  too  busy  holding  what  we  have,  but  what 
is  not  ours,  to  care  an  obolus  whether  a  Carlo  succeeds  an 
Ascanio  at  Faldora — let  Faldora  look  to  himself !  Lippo  ? 
Yes,  they  would  hang  Lippo — or  hire  him  to  cut  another 
throat!" 

Answering  nothing  Fieravanti  turned  to  the  open  win- 
dow and  stood  looking  out  across  the  garden's  flecking  of 
sun  and  shade.  Answer?  What  answer  but  the  one  was 
possible?  Tribalda  was  right,  terribly  right.  From  Ri- 
mini to  the  great  river  in  the  north  the  Emilian  Way  was 
strewn  with  proof.  Nor  was  stronger  proof  possible  than 
that  which  his  own  city  flung  in  his  face.  Forli?  How 
often  in  a  hundred  years  had  Forli  changed  its  over- 
lords— not  with  its  own  consent!  Mestaguerra,  Pagano, 
Faggiuola,  all  had  gripped  power  in  turn  and  all  in  turn 
been  flung  out  in  blood.  Ordelaffi?  Tribalda  was  right. 
Ordelaffi  had  no  more  claim  to  rule  in  Forli  than  he  had 
— less !  since  Ordelafli  was  not  even  Forli  born.  Would 
Ordelaffi  lift  a  finger  to  avenge  Ascanio  Faldora  if,  with 
Lippo's  help,  Carlo  seized  the  shrivelled  lordship?  Not 
he!  Would  Alidosi?  No,  nor  Alidosi!  Alidosi  had  his 
own  grip  to  hold.  Cesena,  then  ?  No  again !  Cesena  was 
in  the  hands  of  another  Ordelaffi  who  dared  no  peradven- 
ture  beyond  his  gates  lest  they  should  be  shut  on  his  back, 
and  as  swift  and  vile  an  end  be  made  of  all  his  blood  as 
had  befallen  Margotti. 

What  then?  This — for  its  salvation  Faldora  must  look 
to  Faldora.  That  Tribalda  had  grounds  for  his  fears 
Fieravanti  never  doubted.  Carlo  Faldora  was  doubly 
damned  and  only  by  some  such  success,  the  success  of 
brutality  and  murder  which  passed  uncensured  and  un- 
challenged because  these  breathed  the  very  spirit  of  the 


REVELATION  189 

times :  only  by  some  such  success  could  he  find  rehabilita- 
tion. Let  him  seize  and  hold  Faldora,  hold  it  with  a 
strong  hand,  and  sufficient  of  his  world  would  condone  the 
past,  accept  the  present  and  smooth  the  future  to  make 
life  tolerable. 

Nor  could  it  be  forgotten  that,  cheat  and  dishonourer 
of  his  name  though  he  was,  no  man  called  Carlo  Faldora 
coward.  Rash?  Reckless?  Foolhardy?  No,  none  of 
these;  cautious  and  calculating  but  yet  no  coward.  With 
little  to  lose  and  all  to  gain  he  might  be  trusted  to  play 
Lippo  as  boldly  as  he  had  played  his  cogged  dice.  What 
else  had  his  final  threat  meant  as  he  had  flung  out  of 
that  very  door. 

At  the  recollection  Fieravanti  went  suddenly  hot  until 
his  scalp  prickled.  At  the  time  it  had  seemed  nothing 
worse  than  coarse  vapouring,  a  braggart  covering  of  an 
ignoble  retreat,  but  not  now,  not  now.  Carlo  Faldora  was 
that  kind  of  scoundrel.  Faldora  must  look  to  Faldora. 
Better  the  flaming  roof  should  bury  their  bones  as  it  buried 
Margotti's,  the  children  with  the  mother,  than  that  Carlo 
Faldora  should  wrest  and  hold  possession — Carlo  Faldora 
with  his  accursed  will  to  be  vile.  Turning  abruptly  he 
faced  Tribalda. 

"Let  Faldora  look  to  itself!  You  are  right;  I  see  no 
other  way.  Have  you  warned  Count  Ascanio?" 

"No.  And  is  it  necessary?  Why  fret  him?  Cannot 
we  two " 

"It  is  his  right.  It  is  no  longer  Faldora  against  Lippo — 
it  is  Faldora  against  Faldora  and  his  right  to  know.  My 
advice  is,  Go  to  him  and  at  once." 

"Come,  then,"  said  Tribalda.     "Let  us  both  go." 

But  Fieravanti  shook  his  head.  "Would  he  thank  me? 
You  ?  yes,  for  it  is  your  duty,  but  who  is  Marco  Fieravanti 
that  he  should  thrust  his  fingers  unasked  into  Faldora's 
affairg?  It  would  be  an  offence.  And,  listen,  Tribalda — 


190  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

there  is  time  to  root  out  traitors  and  put  honest  men  in 
their  place.  Urge  it." 

But  when,  having  told  his  news — news  which  was  re- 
ceived without  one  word  of  surprise,  anger,  denunciation 
or  even  simple  comment — Tribalda  urged  a  riddance  of 
those  whom  he  thought  doubtful  in  the  little  garrison,  and 
an  augmentation  of  strength  in  their  place  he  was  met  by 
a  flat  refusal. 

"Treason?    Are  you  sure?" 

"Sure  enough  to  be  doubtful,  signer." 

"But  not  sure  enough  to  hang  them?" 

"No,  signor,  but  we  rid  ourselves — ' — " 

"To  rid  ourselves  is  to  strengthen  signors  Lippo  and 
Eoverella :  rogue  would  join  rogue.  As  for  augmentation, 
would  you  have  me  go  in  fear  of  cut-purse  thieves?  We 
have  fallen  I  grant,  Tribalda,  but,  praise  God !  not  so  low 
as  that!" 

"Then,  signor,  let  us  be  the  first  to  move:  let  us  at- 
tack this  Lippo  while  he  is  unprepared." 

"Lippo?  Do  not  omit  Signor  Eoverella,  I  beg.  But 
again,  no!  What?  Have  five  lain  buried  under  Mar- 
gotti's  ruins  these  many  weeks  while  I  stirred  no  finger, 
and  would  you  have  me  move  now?  Can  I  fight  in  my 
own  uncertain  quarrel  when  I  would  strike  no  blow  for 
the  helpless?  No !  What  I  said  at  the  first  I  say  now :  let 
Lippo  touch  the  honour  of  Faldora  with  but  a  finger-tip 
and  I'll  strike,  but  not  till  then.  Let  the  Church  cleanse 
its  own  house." 

"Then,  signor,  what  orders  do  you  give  me?" 

"None,  Tribalda,  none.    Let  all  be  as  all  has  been." 

"May  I  talk  with  Messer  Fieravanti,  signor?" 

"Why  should  you.    What  is  all  this  to  him?" 

"Two  things,"  answered  Tribalda  bluntly.  "His  life  is 
at  hazard  as  much  as  ours  and  the  responsibility  for  the 


EEVELATION  191 

defence  lies  on  me,  and,  frankly,  signer,  I  am  afraid." 

"Talk  to  him  whom  you  will,"  answered  Faldora  testily. 
"Since  every  scullion  knows  all  that  is  to  be  known  why 
not  this  Fieravanti?"  Which  did  not  exactly  mean  that  in 
his  own  mind  he  ranked  the  maker  of  saints  with  the  scul- 
lions, though  the  outburst  savoured  that  way. 

With  that  Tribalda  was  forced  to  be  content,  but  out  of 
so  much  that  was  negative  two  or  three  truths  emerged  by 
inference — That  Faldora  refused  to  admit  that  Signer 
Roverella's  joining  Lippo  touched  the  Faldora  honour; 
that  he  did  not  doubt  Carlo  would  venture  all  to  gain  all, 
never  once  was  that  suggestion  combatted,  and,  clearest 
truth  of  all,  the  Faldora  pride  had  abated  no  jot  of  its 
assertive  arrogance. 

And  Count  Ascanio's  permission  that  the  maker  of 
saints  might  be  consulted  openly  had  one  most  unlooked- 
for  result. 

It  was  in  the  late  afternoon  that  Tribalda  had  brought 
his  news  to  the  workshop  and  next  morning  Madonna 
Lucia  gave  the  sculptor  a  sitting  for  the  shaping  of  the 
arms.  Commonly  they  spoke  little  when  thus  alone,  Fiera- 
vanti assuming  an  absorption  in  his  work  and  the  girl 
finding  a  refuge  from  danger  in  the  coldness  of  silence: 
even  indifferent  speech  leads  at  times  to  self  forgetfulness, 
and  in  forgetfulness  the  mask  may  slip.  But  now,  pausing 
in  the  moulding  of  a  rounded  arm  just  free  from  its  loose 
sleeve,  Fieravanti  spoke. 

"Madonna,  you  have  been  very  patient  with  the  sculp- 
tor, would  you  be  as  patient  with  the  man  if  he  presumed 
to  advise — as  a  friend?  Do  not  go  to  the  village;  better 
still,  do  not  go  abroad  at  all." 

"Why?" 

"Signorina,  is  it  necessary  to  explain  at  large?  cannot 
a  friend  advise ?" 


192  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

"Oh,"  said  she,  defence  driving  her  to  exaggeration  and 
beyond  reason,  but  smiling  the  while  that  she  might  not 
let  it  be  seen  that  it  was  defence,  "are  there  not  friends 
and  friends?" 

"I  rank  myself  no  nearer  than  I  dare,"  he  answered. 
"Madonna,  keep  to  the  Casa  garden,  I  beg." 

"Why?  I  am  no  child  to  be  bidden  do  this  or  that  for 
my  own  good  and  no  reason  given." 

"There  is  danger  from  Lippo." 

"From  Lippo?  When  there  is  danger  from  Lippo  my 
grandfather  will  warn  me." 

Again  defence  drove  her  to  exaggeration.  Almost  there 
was  reproof  in  her  voice,  rebuke,  a  bidding  him  mind  his 
own  business,  which  was  to  make  saints  out  of  marble  and 
not  watch  over  a  woman  who,  he  had  avowed,  was  nothing 
to  him.  But  Fieravanti  went  too  much  in  fear  to  be 
silenced  as  she  had  silenced  him  in  the  garden;  only  the 
very  coldness  put  him  off  his  guard. 

"Think  of  me  how  you  will,"  he  answered,  "but  I  would 
be  less  than  a  man  if,  with  so  much  at  hazard,  I  did  not 
risk  displeasing  you.  Madonna,  for  the  love  of  Christ, 
keep  yourself  guarded.  Would  you  break  all  our  hearts? 
Count  Ascanio  does  not  understand  as — as — we  do." 

"Oh,"  she  said  lightly,  mockingly  even,  since  for  the 
moment  mockery  was  defence,  "hearts  are  not  so  easily 
broken." 

His  answer  was  a  gesture  of  the  hands  flung  out  apart, 
then  caught  together  as  he  turned  from  her  as  if  in  de- 
spair. But  she  had  caught  the  pain  in  his  eyes,  had  un- 
derstood the  unconscious  revelation,  and  in  that  instant 
one  of  her  two  causes  for  shame  was  plucked  out  wholly 
by  the  roots.  If  she  had  given  love  unasked  it  had  not 
been  love  undesired  or  unreturned. 

But  even  while  the  woman  in  her  triumphed,  glorying 
as  she  trembled  a  little,  looking  aside  to  hide  the  surrender 


REVELATION  193 

of  her  eyes,  the  custom  of  a  life-time  came  upon  her  in  a 
flood.  Did  love  come  first?  Land,  blood  and  the  Church 
were  equals.  Already,  within  the  week,  a  Faldora  had 
failed  Faldora;  was  she  no  truer  to  the  traditions  of  her 
name? 

"Messer  Fieravanti,"  she  said  sharply,  "do  we  finish 
to-day  or  do  we  not?" 

"To-day,  signorina,"  he  answered,  and  they  spoke  no 
more  as  he  worked. 

But  the  request  he  made  Tribalda,  that  when  Madonna 
Lucia  went  abroad  she  should  be  close  guarded  whether  she 
would  or  no,  need  not  have  been  urged.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  summer  heat,  now  flaming  to  its  fiercest,  but  the  shade4 
of  the  garden  contented  her  that  day  and  onwards. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE    KITES    GATHER 

"THERE  are  two  kinds  of  fools  in  the  world,"  said  Lippo, 
"two  kinds  amongst  many,  you  understand — the  fool  who 
grasps  more  than  he  can  grip  and  so  loses  everything,  and 
he  who  does  not  grasp  at  all.  Now,  which  would  I  be,  I 
wonder  ?" 

"Neither/*  answered  Carlo  Faldora,  "neither ;  you  would 
be  the  wise  man  who  grasps  and  grips." 

"So  you  say,  because  it  suits  you  to  say  it.  But — al- 
ways with  respect,  of  course — I  have  less  confidence  in 
your  wisdom  than  I  once  had.  And  with  reason,  you'll 
admit.  There  you  were,  a  Faldora  to  be  sure  but  a 
Faldora  of  nothing  at  all,  and  Count  Ascanio  lifts  you  out 
of  your  nothing  to  be  Faldora  of  Pesaro  in  God's  good 
time — or  earlier,  if  you  saw  your  way  to  a  hastening.  But 
you  were  not  content.  No!  A  purse,  passing  lean,  per- 
haps, compared  with  your  capacity  for  spending,  but  still 
a  purse  of  a  sort,  filled  the  empty  pocket;  a  wife  with  all 
Faldora  in  her  shoes  waited  for  the  priest  and  his  book, 
but  you  were  not  content.  You  must  needs  rattle  the 
devil's  dicebox  down  in  Forli " 

"Let  that  be,  Lippo.    That  is  past " 

"By  your  leave,"  said  Lippo,  breaking  in  without  cere- 
mony, "but  that  is  where  you  are  wrong.  Nothing  is 
ever  past  so  long  as  its  consequences  remain,  and  one  con- 
sequence is  that  you  may  whistle  for  your  bride,  and,  what 
is  worse,  whistle  for  her  shoes  but  neither  will  come  to 

194 


THE  KITES  GATHER  195 

heel.  And  so  what's  past  is  mose  damnably  present — 
which  brings  us  where  we  were.  You  must  needs,  I  say, 
rattle  cogged  dice  to  make  the  lean  purse  fatter,  and  so 
for  the  sake  of  a  hoof  you  lose  your  bullock,  hide,  horns 
and  all. 

"And  there  is  more  than  that.  There  you  were,  fair 
warned  that  ruin  lay  behind  the  door,  yet  you  did  not  slam 
it  shut,  lock,  bolt  and  bar  it  while  you  might.  What?  In 
these  three  months  were  there  not  ways,  whether  by  the 
priest  and  his  book  or  a  careful  anticipation  of  God's  good 
time — accidents  befall  in  this  uncertain  world — which 
would  have  made  all  safe?  But  no!  You  bite  your 
fingers,  you  hem,  you  haw,  you  stand  first  on  one  leg  then 
on  the  other,  until  both  legs  are  tripped  up  and  you  in  the 
mud !  And  now  you  cry,  Tiippo  crack  your  skull,  the  only 
skull  you  have,  against  the  great  door  of  Faldora,  all  be- 
cause I  was  a  fool!*  No!  To  my  sorrow  I  have  less 
confidence  in  your  wisdom  than  I  once  had;  and  so,  by 
your  leave  I'll  take  thought  lest  one  fool  should  make 
many." 

All  through  the  sour  humour  of  the  long  monologue 
Carlo  Faldora  sat  silent,  literally  biting  the  fingers  Lippo 
had  seen  him  gnaw  in  metaphor.  Always  the  thief  had 
treated  him  with  doubtful  respect,  but  already  he  was 
learning  the  difference  between  Carlo  Faldora,  heir  pre- 
sumptive, and  Carlo  Faldora  outcast  and  disowned:  the 
doubtful  respect  had  passed  in  a  stride  to  no  respect  at 
all,  hardly  even  was  there  a  show  of  equality.  Respect? 
Equality?  No!  There  was  open  contempt  and  scarcely 
less  open  insolence,  nor  dared  he  resent  either.  To  quar- 
rel with  Lippo  was  to  quarrel  with  his  one  hope  of  re- 
gaining all  his  folly  had  flung  away. 

Yes,  folly  was  the  word.  And  yet,  should  he  blame 
himself  ?  What  had  led  to  it  all  ?  Those  accursed  cogged 
dice?  But  that  had  seemed  so  simple.  Who  would  sua- 


196  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

pect  Faldora  of  Pesaro?  Why,  his  very  name  was  a  safe- 
guard. But — yes,  there  had  been  a  folly.  Because  of  the 
safeguard  it  had  been  too  simple,  too  easy,  too  sure,  and  he 
had  allowed  security  to  lure  him  into  an  unwise  frequency 
of  winning.  That,  he  saw  now — had  seen  it  ever  since 
that  damned  night  in  the  Castello,  that  truly  had  been 
folly. 

Then,  too,  Lippo  was  right  over  the  waste  of  the  last 
three  months.  There  should  have  been  an  accident — and 
yet,  no!  That  would  not  have  served  either.  The  mar- 
riage first,  the  accident  after,  or  Lucia  might  have  cried 
off  and  the  accident  bring  him  nothing  but  its  risk.  The 
marriage  first,  yes :  but  was  it  his  fault  that  Lent  had  been 
late?  that  there  could  be  no  marriage  until  Easter  had 
passed?  True,  he  should  have  been  more  ardent,  more 
lover-like.  He  paused  in  his  backward  cast  of  thought 
and  grinned  with  bared  teeth.  Lover-like?  Let  him  per- 
suade Lippo  to  this  venture  and  she  would  find  him  lover- 
like  ;  oh  yes,  by  Holy  Paul !  she  would  find  him  lover-like ! 
But  through  these  three  months  he  had  been  unwise. 
Had  he  importuned,  grown  passionate,  sworn  devotion, 
urged — oh,  urged  many  things  and  played  the  fool  as 
lovers  do,  old  Ascanio  would  have  fixed  the  marriage  for 
the  first  day  the  Church  approved.  Then  let  the  accident 
come!  Fieravanti  and  his  "To  save  Madonna  Lucia?" 
Bah ;  at  the  worst  he  would  have  bought  Fieravanti.  Such 
cattle  are  always  for  sale.  He  might  have  had  to  bid 
high  but  it  would  have  come  cheaper  than  Lippo. 

Well,  he  had  been  a  fool,  let  that  be  admitted.  Now 
the  only  cure  was  to  mesh  Lippo  and  through  him  grip 
all  his  folly  had  lost — but  without  the  burden  of  a  bride 
with  sour  milk  in  her  veins  instead  of  red  blood.  And 
then?  Then  to  rid  himself  of  Lippo  would  not,  at  least 
should  not,  be  difficult.  For  the  rest,  he  knew  his  world. 
Success  would  be  a  swift  repairer  to  a  cracked  reputation. 


THE  KITES  GATHER  197 

A  whitener?  More  than  a  whitener,  a  gilder  of  foul 
smirches,  so  thick  a  gilder  that  not  one  trace  of  the  mud 
would  show  through ! 

But  first  Lippo  must  be  won.  How?  From  under  his 
bent  brows  Faldora  glanced  across  the  table  at  his  com- 
panion's face  and  the  insolence  in  the  cruelly  hard  eyes 
drove  him  to  a  decision.  Boldness  was  his  best  hope  and, 
be  it  remembered,  Carlo  Faldora  was  no  coward  where 
caution  would  not  serve  him. 

"Fool?  Fool  is  easily  said,"  he  declared  brusquely. 
"But  it  is  you  who  will  be  the  fool  if  you  refuse.  Come 
now,  I'll  be  as  frank  as  you  were.  What  are  you?  A  road 
pick-purse — nothing  more!  And  what  will  the  end  be? 
The  end  of  all  your  trade — six  inches  of  steel  in  the  ribs 
or  a  rope  under  the  nearest  tree!  Oh,  you  may  glower; 
but  it's  true,  and  you  know  it.  Now  here  is  your  way  out. 
With  five  hundred  ducats  in  your  pouch  who  will  question 
Signor  Filippo  What-name-you-will ?  Never  a  soul!  The 
risk?  Who  is  denying  the  risk?  Not  I,  since  I  share  it! 
But  any  day  in  a  roadside  brawl  for  a  fistful  of  copper 
sols  you  may  find  that  steel  in  your  ribs  and  there's  an 
end  to  you.  That,  for  the  risk !"  and  Faldora  snapped  his 
fingers.  "Fool,  say  you?  Fool  yourself,  say  I!  Come, 
Lippo,  we  have  been  comrades,  you  and  I,  why  not  again, 
if  for  the  last  time?"  That  it  would  be  the  last  time  he 
had  clearly  decided.  Once  the  success  of  the  assault  was 
assured,  why  Lippo  himself  had  said  that  accidents  be- 
fall in  this  uncertain  world. 

"Comrades?  Yes,  I  have  taken  my  risk  of  steel  in  the 
rihs,  you  your  share  of  the  fistful  of  copper  sols!" 

But  though  Lippo  epoke  sourly  there  was  less  of  the 
aggressive  insolence  in  his  tone.  The  truth  was  he  had 
long  since  decided  upon  the  venture  but,  according  to 
the  cunning  of  his  kind,  hid  his  decision  that  he  might 
drive  a  harder  bargain.  He  saw  eye  to  eye  with  Tribalda. 


198  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

Let  him  succeed  in  this  and  he  would  pass  in  one  stride 
from  a  wayside  thief  of  copper  sols  to  the  ranks  of  the 
condottiere  with  a  sword  to  sell  to  the  highest  bidder. 
But  meanwhile  he  had  his  bargain  to  drive,  and  so  grew 
almost  civil;  an  abatement  of  insolence  would  smooth  the 
way  lest  Faldora  take  offence. 

"Not  that  you  have  not  done  all  I've  asked,"  he  went 
on,  conciliation  clearer  with  every  sentence.  "But  for 
your  warning  I  would  have  mishandled  a  wasp's  nest 
more  than  once.  We  will  call  the  past  even,  Signer  Carlo. 
Now  comes  this  venture  of  yours;  but  a  fistful  of  sols  by 
the  roadside  is  one  thing  and  to  sack  Faldora " 

"Sack  Faldora?  I'll  have  no  sacking,  Lippo.  Your 
pay  is  your  pay." 

Lippo  whistled  derisively,  "What?  We  crack  the  shell 
and  you  eat  the  kernel?  Do  you  call  that  comradeship? 
Crack  the  nut  for  yourself,  Signor  Carlo,  I'll  have  none 
of  it,"  which,  it  will  be  remembered  was  just  Lippo's  way 
of  driving  his  bargain. 

"And  with  the  kernel  gone,  of  what  use  would  the 
cracked  shells  be  to  me?  Now  you  are  the  fool  who  grasps 
too  much  and  so  grips  nothing." 

"But,"  remonstrated  Lippo,  "my  lambs  must  be  fed, 
and  they  have  no  small  appetite.  Double  the  five  hundred 
ducats  and  I'll  begin  to  think  of  it/' 

For  the  moment  Faldora  made  no  reply.  That  he  must 
crush  grapes  before  he  could  drink  wine  he  knew,  but  the 
wine  would  have  to  be  shared  and  so  the  fewer  he  crushed 
the  more  he  would  have  left  for  himself.  Such  a  sum  as 
Lippo  demanded  would  sorely  cripple  Faldora.  Then  he 
remembered  the  accident  which  would  happen:  so  paid, 
the  quittance  would  be  as  easy  for  a  thousand  ducats  as 
for  five  hundred,  and  at  the  comforting  thought  the  frown 
lifted. 

"Be  it  so;  I  was  never  one  to  haggle  with  a  friend," 


THE  KITES  GATHER  199 

he  said  with  geniality.  "And,  Lippo,  let  all  go  well  and 
I  will  add  something  over  and  above:  we  must  part  in 
peace,  we  two.  Is  all  agreed?" 

"Not  so  fast,  signor,  not  so  fast.  Risks  are  my  trade 
and  I  count  them  as  nothing;  but  there's  one  risk  we 
dare  not  face  and  that  is  failure.  Let  us  fail  and  what 
happens?  I  hang  and  you  are  damned!  We  shall  need 
more  men,  and  within  a  week  I'll  lay  my  hand  on  them. 
Now,  what  following  have  you  in  the  Casa  itself?" 

"Ten  or  a  dozen  out  of  Tribalda's  thirty-four." 

"Ten  certain?" 

"Certain." 

But  though  Faldora's  reply  was  positive  Lippo  shook  his 
head.  "No  offence,  signor,"  he  said  civilly,  "but  you 
have  tattered  your  own  affairs  to  such  rags  that  I  doubt 
your  patching  now.  How  can  you  be  certain?" 

"There  are  four  I  could  hang " 

"That  goes  for  nothing.  Let  them  throw  you  over  and 
they  are  safe.  Ascanio  Faldora  would  never  hang  men  who 
risked  life  for  him." 

"Seven  I  have  bought  and  not  paid  for — yet." 

"Bought  how?" 

"Promises.    They  know  me." 

Again  Lippo  shook  his  head  doubtfully.  Would  he 
trust  Carlo  Faldora's  promises?  Not  for  five  minutes! 
But  he  knew  his  man  better  than  these  seven  did,  and  so— 
"Perhaps  that  will  hold — yes,  perhaps,  and  the  rest?" 

"Three  owe  Tribalda  a  grudge,  and  at  least  six " 

"But  that  reckons  twenty?" 

"And  so,  to  be  on  the  safe  side  I  say  ten  or  a  dozen," 
and  Lippo  nodded  thoughtfully. 

As  they  sat  silent,  each  speculating  how  best  to  use  the 
other,  climbing  across  his  back  to  some  advantage,  the 
quiet  was  broken  by  the  yapping  of  dogs  and  a  yelping 
snarl  as  a  tooth  nipped  home  in  savage  play. 


200  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

4|^B 

"Giro !"  said  Lippo.  "Let  us  have  Giro  in.  He  knows 
Tribalda's  men  better  even  than  you." 

"Then  let  him  leave  his  accursed  mongrels  outside.  The 
brutes  will  do  a  man  a  damage  some  day." 

"Not  unless  Giro  bids  them/'  answered  Lippo  as  he 
rose.  "They  know  as  well  as  he  that  here  in  camp  their 
first  bite  would  be  their  last."  Opening  the  door  he 
whistled,  and  presently  Giro  appeared,  his  five  dogs  trail- 
ing at  his  heels. 

Mongrels  they  were,  but  being  mongrels  through  whose 
veins  ran  the  wild  blood  of  fighting  ancestors  they  had 
none  of  a  mongrel's  cowardice;  only  in  size  were  they  de- 
generate from  their  wolfish  sires  of  bygone  generations. 
And  in  size  and  bulk  they  varied.  As  Giro  stood,  some 
reached  his  knees,  some  fell  short  by  six  inches,  but  all 
were  alike  deep  chested,  deep  mouthed,  strong  of  limb,  their 
rough  coats  shaggy  and  bristling,  the  heat  slaver  trickling 
from  their  jaws  as  they  snapped  at  one  another  with  bared 
fangs. 

But  savage  though  they  were  they  had  learned  discre- 
tion. In  all  their  restless  shifting,  never  for  an  instant 
quiet,  they  showed  their  wisdom  by  never  venturing  so 
much  as  a  paw  across  the  threshold,  though  one,  a  hideous 
red-eyed  beast  of  a  dirty  white,  meeting  the  aversion  of 
Faldora's  eyes,  snarled  with  such  a  sudden  venom  of  rage 
that,  half  involuntarily,  Lippo  would  have  thrust  the  door 
shut  had  not  Giro  protested. 

"No  need,  no  need,"  he  cried.  "The  signer's  as  safe 
as  in  a  church.  Not  even  Pluto  there,"  and  he  pointed  to 
a  wicked-eyed  black-haired  beast,  "not  even  Pluto  would 
shake  a  rat  until  I  give  leave." 

"And  then?" 

"Then,"  said  Giro,  "There  would  be  no  rat.  Down  on 
your  bellies,  all  of  you — down — down!"  Then,  as  they 


THE  KITES  GATHER  201 

obeyed  the  imperative  gesture  of  his  open  hand,  he  stepped 
inside  the  hut,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

"Touching  our  little  visit  of  ceremony  to  Faldora,  hear 
what's  planned,"  said  Lippo.  "There  are  ten  ducats  for 
every  man,  and  fifty  for  you:  Signer  Carlo  pays,"  nor,  as 
he  paused  did  Faldora  protest.  After  all,  the  accident 
would  leave  the  cost  small.  "The  young  signor  claims  ten 
or  a  dozen  upon  his  side  in  the  Casa;  what  do  you  say?" 

"More,"  said  Giro  promptly.  "But,  signor,"  he  went 
on,  turning  apologetically  to  Faldora,  "they  are  more  on 
their  own  side  than  on  yours.  Ifs  not — not  just  love,  you 
understand." 

"So  best !  Who  fights  for  himself  has  a  sure  paymaster," 
said  Lippo,  and  laughed,  well  pleased.  As,  indeed  he  had 
the  right  to  be.  Who,  at  a  pinch,  his  own  skin  at  stake, 
would  fight  for  love  of  Carlo  Faldora?  Never  a  soul  in 
this  world!  But  for  his  own  pocket?  Yes!  fight,  and 
fight  like  Giro's  Pluto  if  need  be !  "So  much  for  maggots 
in  the  kernel ;  now  for  cracking  the  nut.  There  is  a  small 
postern,  Giro,  is  there  not " 

"That  will  not  serve,"  broke  in  Faldora.  It  had  vexed 
his  sense  of  his  own  importance  that  he  should,  as  it  were, 
have  been  elbowed  aside  while  all  that  touched  him  most 
nearly  was  under  discussion ;  here  he  could  set  them  right, 
speaking  with  authority.  "I  know  that  postern:  it  is  of 
four-inch  oak,  triple-banded  and  stronger  than  the  great 
door  itself." 

"By  your  leave,  signor,  by  your  leave,"  said  Lippo  toler- 
antly. "I  don't  doubt  it  is  all  you  claim,  but  we  will 
first  hear  what  Giro  has  to  say.  What  of  the  postern  ?" 

"Yes,  it  is  all  the  signor  says,  but"  and  again  Giro 
turned  in  deprecation  to  Faldora,  "the  hinges,  signor,  are 
nothing  but  wooden  pegs " 


202 

"The  devil!  What,  you  dog?  You  dared!  You 
dared!" 

"Softly,  signor."  It  was  Lippo  who  replied.  "Would 
you  have  had  Giro  lose  his  time?  Wise  men  look  ahead, 
and  you  might  not  always  have  been  the  good  comrade. 
The  postern,  Giro?" 

"Just  this — a  push  of  the  shoulder  and  it  is  off  its 
hinges." 

But  Carlo  Faldora  was  no  longer  listening.  His  pride 
was  bitterly  offended.  In  the  complexity  and  contradic- 
tion of  human  nature  he  could  dice  away  his  honour,  share 
with  a  Lippo  the  profits  of  petty  theft,  plot  the  murder  of 
the  man  by  whose  side  he  broke  bread,  and  yet  resent  a 
cunning  deception  which,  in  the  outcome,  was  to  turn  to 
his  own  advantage.  Grimly  he  decided  that  when  Lippo 
went  out  of  this  uncertain  world,  to  his  own  place  by  way 
of  an  accident,  he  should  not  go  alone!  Then  his  good 
comrade's  voice,  harsh  with  suspicion  and  challenge  aroused 
him. 

"You  said  Tribalda  had  thirty-four  under  him ;  Giro  de- 
clares there  are  fifty  ?" 

"Both  are  right.  Tribalda's  thirty-four  are  trained  men, 
the  rest  are  scullions,  lackeys  and  their  like.  They  count 
for  nothing." 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that!  Then  there  are  three  from 
Forli?" 

"Chisellers !"  scoffed  Faldora.  "Though,  by  my  faith, 
one  carries  a  cudgel,  does  he  not,  Giro?" 

"Better  a  cudgel  than  a  dicebox,"  said  Lippo.  "Leave 
Giro  to  pay  his  own  debts !  A  week  will  see  quittance  in 
full.  Give  me  a  week  to  add  twenty  to  our  thirty  and  I'll 
risk  it." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

LUCIA   LEARNS   THE    HIGHEST    LAW 

EVENTS  are  often  like  the  breaking  up  of  a  dyke,  or  the 
slipping  of  a  stone  down  a  mountain  side.  At  first  there 
is  but  a  sweating  on  the  outer  surface  of  the  bank,  then 
a  drip  through  a  hidden  crack,  a  seeping  out  of  moisture 
by  way  of  a  hair-line  so  fine  that  the  eye  misses  the  portent, 
next  a  trickle,  a  thin  spouting  under  pressure,  a  swift 
broadening  of  the  stream  and  with  a  roar  the  flood  is 
frothing  through  the  breach. 

Or,  little  by  little,  the  soft  earth  cut  from  under  it  by 
the  rains,  the  stone  slips,  gathering  force  with  every  yard 
until,  toppling  over  some  petty  decline  its  impetus  is 
loosed  from  all  restraint  and  in  mighty  leaps  it  thunders 
to  the  valley,  drawing  a  spreading  trail  of  destruction  after 
it.  So  it  was  through  this  last  week,  though,  differing 
from  the  flood  and  avalanche,  the  cumulative  and  accumu- 
lating forces  passed  unnoticed. 

First,  an  urgent  express  came  from  Arzano  summoning 
Fieravanti  to  a  conference  with  the  Duke  upon  some  diffi- 
culty which  had  arisen  in  the  execution  of  the  plans  for 
the  city's  defence.  Nor  was  he  loth  to  go.  Faldora  held 
little  pleasure  for  any  man  these  days,  and  less  than 
little  for  him,  except  in  the  putting  life  into  the  clay. 
Everywhere  there  was  the  sense  of  storm,  either  of  tempest 
past,  but  with  the  ruin  left  in  its  track  not  yet  scarred 
over,  or  of  a  brooding  thunderbolt  slowly  gathering  force. 
If  old  Ascanio  was  still  the  courteous  host  it  was  with  a 
difference.  His  lean,  eagle  face  was  leaner  and  fiercer, 

203 


204  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

spells  of  silence  possessed  him  and  often,  now,  he  drank 
the  strong  wine  of  Brettinoro  beyond  his  wont;  not  to 
excess,  be  it  understood,  save  in  so  far  as  excess  spelled 
an  exaggeration  of  the  man's  instincts.  For  one  thing, 
never  had  the  Faldora  pride  been  so  strongly  in  evidence 
as  since  the  day  Carlo  Faldora  had  humbled  it. 

Of  Madonna  Lucia  Fieravanti  saw  less  and  less.  Now 
that  the  actual  modelling  was  completed,  and  she  no  longer 
a  necessity  for  the  progress  of  the  statue,  she  avoided  the 
workroom  with  a  directness  which  openly  avowed  her  in- 
difference to  statue  and  sculptor  alike.  Best  so,  Fiera- 
vanti told  himself,  and  in  the  same  breath  watched  the 
door  in  an  eager  hope  that  the  worst  might  befall ! 

But,  to  the  great  indignation  of  'Tonio  and  'Sandro,  she 
never  crossed  the  threshold — unless  she  found  the  door 
open  and  the  room  empty!  Then,  being  a  woman  and 
certain  she  was  unseen,  she  would  slip  inside,  colour  warm- 
ing cheeks  which  had  grown  whiter  than  ever  before  in 
the  heat  of  summer.  It  was  strange,  but  it  was  not  the 
statue  which  drew  her.  No,  but  with  lingering  fingertips 
she  would  touch  this  or  that  which  he  had  touched,  then 
set  them  sharply  down,  these  innocent  graving  tools,  as 
if  suddenly  they  had  scorched  her,  and,  being  still  a  woman, 
return,  stiffly  erect  to  the  silence  of  her  own  apartments, 
there  to  tatter  her  weakness  with  talons  of  scornful  self 
contempt  but,  being  always  a  woman,  never  failing  to  meet 
the  maker  of  saints  with  such  a  level  of  indifference  that 
an  open  rupture  would  have  been  more  tolerable. 

No,  Fieravanti  had  no  regrets  at  obeying  the  summons 
to  Arzano.  But,  however  sore  at  heart,  he  abated  neither 
thought  nor  caution  on  her  behalf.  Why  should  he?  All 
love  is  proved  by  sacrifice  and  what  greater  sacrifice  than 
self  can  there  be?  So  Tribalda  was  warned  afresh  and 
'Tonio  and  'Sandro  bidden  watch  with  ceaseless  vigilance 
lest  Lippo  swoop  unawares. 


LUCIA  LEARNS  THE  HIGHEST  LAW      205 

"He  is  a  clever  rogue,  is  Lippo.  He  has  his  spies  in  the 
village  and  will  hear  I  have  taken  the  Arzano  road.  Why? 
To  ask  help  from  the  Duke?  He  may  think  so  and  the 
fear  spur  him  on  to  strike  at  once !  Go  amongst  the  folk, 
you  two ;  learn  all  you  can  from  their  gossip  but,  on  your 
lives,  tell  them  nothing!"  a  double  injunction  which  in 
time  bore  fruit. 

Fieravanti  being  gone,  next,  in  the  gathering  forces  of 
the  week's  happenings,  there  came  a  guest  to  Faldora  by 
way  of  the  Custom. 

"Above  the  salt,  Madonna,"  said  Joana,  the  maid  who 
brought  Lucia  the  information.  "I  heard  no  name,  but  he 
is  no  great  lord  like  Count  Fausto." 

"Old  or  young?" 

"Oh,  very  old,  Madonna,  old  and  bent,  and  with  the 
sorrowfullest  face  in  all  the  world."  Then,  being  young 
and  having  lived  all  her  life  in  Brettinoro  or  the  Casa, 
and  therefore  privileged,  she  went  on,  "I  shivered  to  see 
him.  His  eyes  seemed  the  only  thing  alive  in  a  face  that's 
as  grey  as  death,  and  they  are  sorrowfullest  of  all." 

Xor,  pausing  a  moment  unnoticed  as  she  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  receiving-room,  could  Lucia  Faldora  dis- 
pute the  truth  of  the  description  except  in  one  particular. 
Bent?  Yes,  but  as  he  faced  her  from  midway  across  the 
room,  where  he  stood  by  the  side  of  his  host,  it  seemed 
to  the  girl  that  it  was  weight  of  the  years'  sorrow  and  not 
their  number  which  had  stooped  the  narrow  shoulders. 
Stooped  they  were;  Ascanio  Faldora,  a  generation  older, 
topped  him  as  a  lance  tops  a  strung-bow. 

For  the  rest,  Joana  was  justified,  though  the  long  and 
colourless  face,  furrowed  by  brooding  care  and  lean  with 
ascetic  thought,  was  splendidly  redeemed  from  unhappi- 
ness  and  discontent  by  the  luminous,  full  eyes.  They  held 
her  fascinated,  these  eyes,  so  virile  were  they  and  yet  so 
sorrowful.  It  seemed  as  if  out  of  them  looked  the  gentle 


206  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

spirit  of  a  poet  dreamer,  surprised  to  find  itself  flung 
naked  into  a  harsh  world  of  tragedy.  Yet,  looking  closer, 
there  were  signs  that  the  spirit  was  not  always  gentle, 
not  always  the  pledged  ascetic,  the  mild  and  contempla- 
tive dreamer.  The  thin,  acquiline  nose  had  more  than  a 
hint  of  old  Faldora's  fierce  pride,  nor  could  the  thick,  crisp 
beard,  once  black,  now  heavily  streaked  with  grey,  hide 
the  stern  determination  of  the  firm  chin.  For  the  rest,  the 
skin  was  that  of  an  Italian  of  the  plains,  swarthy  rather 
than  sallow,  and  from  the  full-lipped  mouth  the  lower  lip 
hung  prominent.  A  dreamer  ?  Perhaps ;  but  once  aroused 
he  would  be  an  ill  man  to  move  from  his  matured  opinions. 

As  Lucia  moved  forward  Faldora  turned,  a  courteous 
hand  on  his  guest's  shoulder. 

"We  are  in  debt  to  the  Custom,  my  girl.  I  present  to 
you  Messer  Dante  Alighieri.  This  is  the  last  of  my  race, 
signor;  we  have  rotted  to  one  solitary  distaff  branch,  we 
Faldoreschi." 

"Surely  budded,  rather."  He  smiled  as  he  spoke  the 
three  words  and  on  the  instant  the  sad  austerity  of  the 
ascetic  face  dissolved  into  a  gentle  softness  infinitely  kindly, 
infinitely  winning.  "It  is  the  heritage  of  age,  signorina, 
to  live  in  two  lives — its  memories  and  the  youth  of  those 
it  loves." 

"Memories?  God  send  us  something  less  bitter!"  said 
Faldora  with  grim  bluntness.  "We  know  something  of 
your  story  and  by  report  you  would  rather  be  bound  for 
Florence  than  Ravenna  if  you  were  sure  of  a  welcome! 
How  long  is  it  since  they  shut  the  gates  on  you  ?  A  dozen 
years  ?" 

"Fifteen." 

"Yet  you  talk  of  happy  memory!  Bleak  as  my  own 
memories  are,  by  Holy  Paul,  I  would  not  change  them 
with  those  of  an  outcast " 


LUCIA  LEARNS  THE  HIGHEST  LAW      207 

"No,  Count  Ascanio !  An  exile  for  the  right !  No  man 
is  ever  outcast  who  carries  a  clear  conscience." 

"The  right?  There  Florence  differs;  and,  to  be  honest 
with  you,  I  think  with  Florence!  But  here  comes  Giu- 
seppe and  supper.  By  your  leave,  Messer  Dante,  we  will 
talk  no  more  of  Florence.  You  are  Guelf  and  hold  by  the 
Pope,  I  am  Ghibelline  and  have  been  robbed  by  the  Pope; 
but  for  to-night  we  are  host  and  guest  and  may  leave 
policies  and  politics  to  their  father,  the  devil.  Lead  the 
way,  Giuseppe/* 

Nor,  with  the  guest  of  The  Custom  seated  in  Fiera- 
vanti's  vacant  place  did  talk  halt  for  the  leaving  aside  of 
these  two  sons  of  their  sire.  Both  being  men  of  the  great 
world,  there  was  ample  common  ground  upon  which  their 
antagonisms  did  not  clash.  There  they  met,  the  one  bring- 
ing to  their  talk  vivid  and  clear-cut  recollections  of  the 
great  days  of  more  than  sixty  years  earlier  when  Empire 
and  Papacy  strove  in  death  grips  for  supremacy,  to  the 
dire  hurt  of  both ;  while  the  other,  through  his  fifteen  years 
of  eating  bitter  bread  and  weary  climbing  of  alien  stairs, 
had  gained  much  sorrowful  knowledge  of  men  and  the  ways 
of  men. 

Across  their  interchange,  like  shadows  on  a  dim-lit 
stage,  flitted  at  times  the  sinister  figure  of  an  Innocent, 
at  times  the  greatness  of  an  emperor  hailed  even  by  his 
foes  as  Stupor  Mundi,  or  it  might  be  the  holy  influence  of 
the  gentle,  saintly  Coelestine.  Next  the  talk  would  turn 
upon  Charles  of  Anjou,  the  bloody  ghosts  of  the  Sicilian 
Vespers  haunting  his  steps,  or  Can  Grande,  the  great 
Scaliprer,  to  whom  the  poet  owed  a  refuge  in  his  direst 
need,  these  and  a  score  more,  with  vivid  careless  hints  of 
battles  lost  and  won,  of  cities  sacked  and  sieges  raised,  of 
embassies  to  Rome,  the  gay  splendour  of  Courts  which  had 
filled  thrir  little  day  and  were  no  longer.  Ascanio  Faldora 


208  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

had  lived  through  fifteen  Papacies;  Tuscany,  Eomagna, 
TJmbria,  The  Marches,  there  was  not  a  great  city  in  their 
length  and  breadth  which  the  exile,  poet,  philosopher  and 
stateman,  did  not  know.  No !  Opposites  though  they  were 
and  trenched  in  separate  camps  they  had  much  in  common, 
these  two,  and  as  they  talked  all  other  talk  died. 

Now,  it  is  just  in  such  intimate  talk  that  men  reveal 
themselves.  Under  the  stimulus  the  bent  figure  oppo- 
site Lucia  Faldora  straightened  in  its  chair,  the  austere, 
sorrowful  face  glowing  at  times  and  at  times  glooming, 
the  full,  clear  eyes  now  mild  in  vision,  now  flashing  as 
scorching  an  indignation  as  ever  flamed  from  old  Fal- 
dora's  bitterest  scorn.  All  the  many  sides  of  his  multiple 
nature  broke  bounds  in  turn,  but  through  the  swift,  be- 
wildering shifts  of  mood  the  fascinated  girl  saw  only  the 
man  who,  rumour  whispered,  had  walked  through  hell, 
had  burst  the  bars  of  purgatory  and  looked  with  living 
eyes  upon  the  glories  of  heaven's  highest  paradise. 

Eumours  they  were,  or  little  more  than  rumours,  tales 
which,  no  doubt,  had  grown  in  the  telling  as  tales  will. 
But  at  times  Marco  Fieravanti  had  quoted  lines  which 
refused  to  be  forgotten,  and  through  the  tales  were  blent 
uncertain  echoes  of  a  stupendous  drama  across  whose  stage 
there  passed  the  living  and  the  dead,  tormented  souls  and 
spirits  of  divinest  happiness,  devils,  saints,  angels,  with, 
far  off  exalted,  remote  yet  near,  the  greatest  glory  of 
imagination,  Eternal  God  Himself,  effulgent  beyond  all 
understanding. 

"Yesterday  Gubbio,  to-morrow  Kavenna,"  he  was  say- 
ing, "I  am  a  vessel  without  sail  or  rudder,  driven  here 
and  there  by  every  dry  wind  that  springs  from  dolorous 
poverty." 

vrBut  surely,"  answering  the  bitter  spirit  rather  than 
the  bitter  words,  Father  Bernardo  broke  his  silence  im- 
pulsively, "surely  after  fifteen  years  Florence,  upon  your 


LUCIA  LEAKNS  THE  HIGHEST  LAW      209 

petition,   would    receive — give   back — would — would- 


His  voice  trailed  into  dumbness  as  the  Florentine  turned 
slowly  and  looked  him  in  the  face. 

"Florence?  When  did  Florence,  being  wrong,  show 
amnesty  to  those  who  had  offended,  being  right?  Never! 
And  now  least  of  all !  Some  hearts,  blessed  by  prosperity, 
expand  their  overflow  in  gentleness — never  Florence !  En- 
vious, malignant,  stony-hearted :  to  love  liberty  is  in  Flor- 
ence the  one  sin  unforgivable.  Petition  Florence?  For 
what?  That  I  may  graciously  be  granted  pardon  for  my 
innocence?  absolution  for  a  sin  never  committed?  that 
being  guiltless  guilt  may  be  forgiven  and  my  clean  soul 
excused  its  infamy  ?  You  speak  as  a  priest,  not  as  a  man ! 
No!  Never  by  that  road  shall  I  return  to  Florence.  If 
only  by  the  gate  of  an  infamous  confession  can  Florence 
be  re-entered,  then,  God's  my  witness,  never  again  shall  I 
tread  the  stones  of  the  dear  city." 

"The  dear  city  which  you  love,"  said  Lucia,  as  the 
sonorous  voice  slipped  from  its  pregnant  scorn  to  gentle- 
ness. 

"God,  He  knows — yes,  Madonna.  In  spite  of  all — yes ! 
And  so  loving  Florence  I  ask  no  more  but  that  she  open 
her  doors  to  me.  What  more  is  needful?  I  have  suffered 
bitter  wrong?  Yes,  but  love  that  cannot  pardon  is  no 
true  love :  it  loves  its  pride  better  than  the  beloved.  Love 
that  sets  self  aside,  finding  its  divinest  good  in  sacrifice,  is 
God  in  the  flesh.  The  world  holds  nothing  greater;  it  is 
the  keystone  of  the  arch  of  life,  it  pardons  all  offence,  it 
sets  the  lowly  by  the  highest  and  draws  all  men  into  the 
divine  equality  of  heaven ^ 

"Aye,  aye,  aye,"  said  Faldora  impatiently.  "That  is 
true  in  heaven,  maybe,  but,  Messcr  Dante,  we  who  are  on 
earth  must  live  after  our  kind;  and  I  say  to  you  and  to 
all,  there  are  some  offences  never  to  be  forgiven." 

"Then   was   there  never  love,"   answered   Dante,   and 


210  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

Faldora  shrugged  indifferently.  It  is  to  be  doubted  if 
all  his  long  life  he  had  known  the  heights  and  depths  of 
love:  certainly  there  had  been  no  love  for  Carlo  Faldora. 

"May  be,  may  be;  but  to  me  it  seems  you  talk  of  what 
you  do  not  understand.  A  grace,  Father,  since  supper's 
ended,"  and  with  that  all  rose. 

It  was  the  unwritten  law  of  The  Custom  that  an  over- 
night's guest  should  depart  after  breaking  fast  on  the 
morrow.  The  reasons  were  twofold  and  plain  to  under- 
stand— none  might  trade  upon  his  welcome,  and  there 
might  be  need  to  make  way  for  some  other  chance  way- 
farer :  not  all  who  hung  their  rings  on  Brettinoro's  marble 
pillar  had  the  space  of  Faldora  at  their  disposal. 

But  the  needs  must  of  nature  is  a  greater  power  than 
any  custom,  and  with  the  morning  it  was  clear  that  the 
over-night's  guest  must  rest  a  day  lest  he  fail  by  t"he 
road.  Nor  was  there  for  one  instant  any  thought  of  demur, 
but,  as  Count  Ascanio  was  busied  easing  his  sore  heart  with 
much  active  doing  of  very  little,  the  entertaining  through 
this  further  day  fell  to  Madonna  Lucia. 

"See  to  him,  my  girl,"  Faldora  said  as  he  made  ready  to 
mount.  "No  doubt  he  was  a  man  once,  but  now  he  is 
more  a  woman  than  a  man  and  so  falls  to  your  share." 

"And  you?    You  will  take  care  that  Lippo — — " 

But  he  cut  her  troubled  anxiety  short  with  a  laugh  new 
to  Ascanio  Faldora,  so  bitter-toned  was  it. 

"Lippo?  Signer  "Roverella,  you  mean!  Yes,  Tribalda 
has  ten  of  a  guard  waiting  for  me  beyond  the  gate.  My 
God!  to  think  of  it!  I  must  go  abroad  hedged,  lest  my 
own  flesh  and  blcod  stab  me  in  the  back — as  he  has!  as 
he  has!" 

"But,  grandfather,  if  you  would  deal  with  Lippo  as — 
as — Captain  Tribalda  advises " 

"When  he  touches   Faldora,  yes.     Till   then   let  the 


LUCIA  LEARNS  THE  HIGHEST  LAW     211 

Church  that  has  robbed  me  of  my  people  see  to  my  people !" 
Seated  in  the  saddle  he  paused,  looking  down  at  her  from 
under  puckered  brows.  "We  must  marry  you  and  soon. 
For  safety's  sake  it  is  that  or  a  convent.  But  to  whom — 
that's  the  question  ?  Thank  heaven !  it  will  not  be  Signor 
Roverella!  You  and  I  are  in  Fieravanti's  debt  there. 
But  now,  to  whom  ?  Perhaps  Alidosi  will  return  this  way ; 
we'll  see!"  and  with  a  nod,  stern  and  hard  of  face,  he 
rode  out  to  where  the  ten  waited  to  guard  his  back  lest 
Carlo  Faldora  should  stab  the  flesh  as  he  had  stabbed 
soul  and  spirit. 

Alidosi?  Or  if  not  Alidosi,  some  other?  And  it  must 
be  soon?  The  hateful  thought  seemed  to  grip  her  heart 
and  shake  it  as  in  a  shut  fist,  driving  the  blood  to  the 
brain  in  hot  waves.  Alidosi  or  another?  That  would  be 
intolerable — a  sacrilege.  Though  she  had  had  no  love  for 
Carlo  Faldora  yet  to  marry  him  had  seemed  no  hardship — 
until  three  months  ago:  he  had  even  been  repugnant  to 
her,  yet  to  marry,  and  marry  the  heir  to  the  name,  thus 
linking  name  and  heritage,  had  been  so  much  a  duty  and 
a  matter  of  course  that  not  even  repugnance  had  made 
wifehood  a  hardship — until  three  months  ago. 

Not  even  when  repugnance  grew  into  loathing,  rousing 
a  rebellion  of  spirit  and  flesh  no  less  fierce  for  being  sup- 
pressed, had  she  had  any  thought  of  pleading  for  her 
freedom.  Of  what  use?  The  duty  and  the  matter  of 
course  remained  the  same.  Nothing  was  changed  but 
If,  and  in  Ascanio  Faldora's  eyes  she  counted  for 
nothing  at  all,  or  only  as  the  mother  of  Faldoras  yet  to 
be.  And  what  could  she  have  pled?  Not  repugnance, 
not  loathing:  what  did  these  matter  in  one  whose  sole  use 
was  to  mother  Faldoras?  Nothing  at  all:  they  would 
have  been  brushed  aside  as  immaterial. 

What  then?  Could  she  plead  that  she  loved — No!  and 
again  no!  Loved  whom?  Marco  Fieravanti  the  half 


212  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

peasant !  Marco  Fieravanti  who  had  said,  "Wh&t  is  Lucia 
Faldora  to  me!"  Better  Carlo  Faldora  and  her  cup  of 
loathing  to  the  brim  than  a  confession  which  shamed  her 
pride  and  abased  her  womanhood.  More  than  that.  So 
to  have  pled  would  have  been  waste.  The  marriage  would 
have  been  pressed  on  in  haste  and  in  the  volcanic  eruption 
of  men's  passions  God  alone  knew  what  might  have  be- 
fallen Marco  Fieravanti.  Death  almost  certainly.  To 
clear  him  finally  from  the  path  would  be  safest.  No,  she 
could  have  pled  nothing. 

Then  had  come  Carlo  Faldora's  exposure,  and  with  his 
outcasting  had  been  cast  out  the  fear  of  all  she  dared  not 
form  in  clear  thought,  the  fear  bred  of  loathing.  Nor 
did  comfort  end  with  that  freedom.  Unconsciously  Fiera- 
vanti had  revealed  himself,  and  the  love  of  the  woman 
knew  that  the  answering  love  of  the  man  would  have  poured 
out  its  passion  were  it  not  held  in  as  stern  a  check  as 
her  own.  Why?  Without  a  doubt  her  grandfather  had 
given  the  reason  by  anticipation. 

"Land,  blood  and  the  Church  are  equals.  But  riches? 
No!  Any  huckster  may  grow  rich.  Let  the  mud  of  the 
world  stay  where  God  placed  it." 

And  if  wealth  great  enough  to  seek  marriage  with  Fal- 
dora remained  the  mud  of  the  world  in  Count  Ascanio's 
eyes,  what  would  he  not  say  to  a  simple  peasant-born 
maker  of  saints,  who  called  himself  nothing  more  than  a 
trader?  Yes,  there  came  the  pinch-despisal,  a  pinch  that 
nipped  her  own  pride  till  it  cried  out  in  protest.  Despisal 
of  the  man?  No!  never  that,  as  God  lived,  she  told  her- 
self, never  that.  From  her  soul  she  gloried  in  the  man; 
not  Carlo  Faldora,  not  Alidosi,  could  compare  with  him. 

What,  then,  did  she  despise?  Truly,  herself — and — yes, 
his  birth,  but  with  the  despisal  of  custom  rather  than  of 
any  incisive  conviction.  All  her  life  she  had  accepted  the 
inferiority  of  the  mud  of  the  world  as  she  accepted  the 


LUCIA  LEARNS  THE  HIGHEST  LAW      213 

dogmas  of  the  Church,  giving  no  analytic  thought  to 
either:  but  as  between  the  two,  herself  and  his  peasant 
blood,  she  despised  herself  most,  mistaking  a  passive  ac- 
customed pride  for  the  more  active  contempt:  that  the 
man  in  whom  she  gloried  might  have  a  spirit  the  equal 
of  her  own  never  crossed  her  thought. 

But  of  late  these  cross  currents  had  troubled  her  little: 
they  had  been  turned  aside  as  of  no  consequence  once  the 
shadow  cast  by  Carlo  Faldora  had  lifted.  Life  could 
drift  on;  life  was  not  unhappy,  it  was  even  good!  Not 
passionately  good  as  she  knew  life  might  be  if  only  Marco 
Fieravanti  were — what?  With  Ascanio  Faldora's,  "We 
must  marry  you,  my  girl,"  ringing  in  her  ears  the  question 
was  folly.  Marco  Fieravanti  could  be  nothing  to  her  and 
Alidosi  would  pass  that  way  within  the  month. 

Busied  with  her  tangled  thoughts  she  passed  through  a 
side  door,  opening  from  the  inner  court  where  Faldora 
had  mounted,  into  the  garden;  there,  under  the  welcome 
shade,  she  found  the  exiled  Florentine  pacing  slowly  back 
nnd  forth. 

"You  have  had  Marco  Fieravanti  with  you?"  he  said, 
after  the  first  morning  courtesies  had  passed.  "It  grieves 
me  deeply  that  we  have  not  met." 

"He  will  reckon  it  his  loss,"  she  answered  sedately, 
giving  no  sign  of  the  tremor  which  surged  through  her 
at  the  unexpected  mention  of  the  name.  Then,  eager  for 
his  praise,  but  slowly,  lest  she  should  reveal  the  eagerness, 
she  went  on,  "You  have  seen  his  work — his  carvings?" 

"All  Romagna  knows  and  honours  them !  They  are  an 
inspiration  and  a  promise.  Truly  God  was  good  to  men 
when  he  put  His  fire  into  a  Marco  Fieravanti.  We  have 
no  other  like  him  to  preach  the  highest  law  as  not  even  a 
priest  can  preach  it.  Madonna,  with  all  my  heart  I  say, 
God  be  thanked  for  Marco  Fieravanti !" 

"The  highest  law?"    So  shaken  was  she,  so  thrilled  from 


214  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

head  to  foot  by  the  outspoken,  generous  enthusiasm,  that 
to  speak  at  all  was  difficult :  the  three  words  were  no  better 
than  a  stammer. 

"Love,  Madonna.  And  it  is  the  highest  law  because  if 
it  be  true  to  itself  it  compels  us  to  the  highest  in  us.  And 
what  is  that  highest?  Let  every  soul  answer  to  God,  but 
it  cannot  be  a  denial  of  love  which  is  born  of  God." 

"Oh/'  she  answered,  still  trembling,  "surely  there  are 
loves  and  loves  ?" 

Being  deeply  moved  she  spoke  lightly.  It  may  be  that 
the  sundial,  seen  beyond  the  opening  of  the  trees  under 
whose  branches  they  walked,  recalled  a  memory.  Then 
the  easy  phrase  had  passed,  now  it  was  challenged. 

"Loves  and  loves?  No !  one,  one  only,  one  and  no  more. 
We  call  it  by  different  names  but  it  differs  in  nothing 
except  in  that  we  differ  in  its  using.  Whether  men  live  by 
it  or  die  for  it,  it  is  the  one  love.  Let  it  bring  sorrow, 
let  it  be  the  daily  God  be  thanked !  of  our  happiness,  it  is 
the  one  love,  and  the  gift  of  heaven.  Winter  and  summer 
the  sun  is  the  same  sun,  and  praised  by  God,  love  that  is 
love  is  love  unchangeable." 

He  paused  in  silence,  his  lips  still  moving,  his  eyes  blind 
to  earthly  sun  and  shade  as  they  looked,  it  may  be,  once 
again  into  "the  Glory  Infinite,  the  Light  Eternal,  the  Love 
which  moves  the  sun  and  other  stars." 

"But,"  she  said,  hesitating  to  break  in  upon  the  vision 
yet  driven  to  speak,  "are  there  not  at  times  conditions — 

"Conditions?"  He  shook  his  head.  "Neither  condition 
nor  conditions.  How  could  there  be?  Love  that  does  not 
love  without  conditions  is  not  love.  Either  it  puts  self  first 
or  lacks  faith.  Love  sees  the  best  in  the  beloved.  Suppose 
— I  mean  no  offence,  God  knows,  being  old  enough  to  bo 
a  father  to  such  as  you,  Madonna — but  suppose  this  maker 
of  saints  held  you  to  be  God's  supreme  creation,  as  love 
would,  then  he  would  see  you  to  be  compact  of  His  great- 


LUCIA  LEARNS  THE  HIGHEST  LAW     215 

est  work,  and  so  seeing  would  reproduce  the  greatness  for 
our  duller  eyes.  Conditions?  He  would  see  beyond  them. 
Conditions  seek,  love  gives  and  glories  in  the  giving!" 
Again  he  fell  silent,  but  across  the  silence  there  broke  a 
whisper,  "Florence — what  would  I  not  give  thee,  Florence, 
my  Florence."  Then,  with  a  long  shivering  breath  he 
caught  a  lip  in  the  grip  of  his  teeth  and  was  dumb. 
"Even  after  fifteen  years  you  love  Florence?" 
"Madonna,  her  very  stones  are  dear.  Love  Florence? 
Yes!  Though  Florence  is  granite-hearted  and  will  be  to 
the  end." 

"But/'  she  objected  again,  "if  to  love  were  to  stoop " 

"Love  uplifts,  always;  and  uplifting  is  uplifted — even 
though  it  be  upon  a  cross." 

"I  cannot  understand,  I  cannot  see,  no,  I  cannot  see." 
"What  of  that  ?    Love  is  like  the  sun  at  times  and  hides 
himself  in  his  own  brightness." 

"But  at  least  the  brightness  would  be  seen." 

"Surely,  else  is  it  not  love.    But  we  are  born  blind  and 

that  is  Marco  Fieravanti's  greatness — to  open  blind  eyes, 

making  clear  that  which  we  could  not  see  apart  from  him. 

To-day,  passing  his  workshop  and  the  door  open,  I  saw  his 

•  and  his  greatest  divination.    Whence,  Madonna,  came 

the  love  of  the  Great  Mother?    Through  the  stooping  of  a 

yet   greater  love?     Conditions?     Heaven  may  stoop   to 

earth,  but  we,  poor  petty  fools  of  time,  set  our  little  great- 

•Irst  and  forget  that  to  deny  love  is  to  deny  God  who 

is  Love." 

Again  he  fell  silent,  whispering  to  himself,  and  this  time 
Lucia  Faldora,  elmring  in  part  his  vision,  left  the  silence 
unbroken.  That  he  spoke  of  Florence,  Florence  which 
made  conditions  to  his  love,  while  her  thoughts  were  on 
Marco  Fieravanti  mattered  nothing. 


CHAPTEE  XXII 

'TONIO    PLAYS    MICARE    AND    LOSES 

WHAT  next  happened  in  that  week's  breaking  of  the  dyke 
was  that  'Tonio  and  'Sandro  played  a  little  game  of 
micare  together.  It  is  one  of  the  oldest  gambling  hazards, 
as  old  as  knuckle-bones,  and  one  of  the  fairest  when  fairly 
played.  Also  it  is  one  of  the  simplest — playing  alter- 
nately, one  gambler  throws  up  his  hands,  extending  what 
fingers  and  thumbs  he  pleases,  the  other  guesses  simul- 
taneously, winning  an  agreed  stake  if  right,  losing  nothing 
if  wrong:  or,  it  may  be,  that  a  total  is  fixed,  the  reaching 
of  which  ends  the  game. 

But  even  when  played  with  scrupulous  fairness  there 
is  an  advantage  to  the  more  experienced  player,  an  in- 
tuition develops,  an  instinct  comes  with  practice,  and  so 
'Sandro  was  the  first  to  reach  the  allotted  score  and  there- 
by win  choice  of  the  two  charges  laid  upon  them  by  the 
Master. 

"The  signorina !"  he  said  promptly.  "Do  you  hunt  news 
of  Lippo  in  the  village  while  I  watch  in  the  garden." 

"You  have  all  the  duck,"  grumbled  Hawk.  "The  sig- 
norina and  shade,  while  I  go  roast  in  the  sun.  She  may 
even  speak  to  you,"  he  added  enviously. 

"To-day  to  me,  to-morrow  to  you/'  said  'Sandro,  with 
the  easy  philosophy  of  the  man  who  has  no  quarrel  with 
life  and  sees  no  reason  why  the  morrow  should  not  be  his 
also.  "If  I  were  you,  'Tonio,  I  would  try  the  wine-shop 
and  the  fields;  there's  where  you  will  find  the  men.  The 
women,  poor  souls,  will  be  afraid  of  an  open  mouth." 

216 


TONIO  PLAYS  MICARE  AND  LOSES      217 

"It  was  a  woman  who  spoke  out  that  day  at  Margotti  V 

"Yes,  but  that  was  to  the  Master;  they  all  trust  the 
Master.  Try  the  fields,  Tonio,  try  the  fields." 

"The  fields  ?  Plague  take  your  fields !  Once  beyond  the 
vineyards,  where  there  is  no  work  this  time  of  year,  the 
fields  are  no  more  than  patches  hidden  here  and  there 
among  rocks:  but  if  the  wine-shop  fails  I  see  nothing 
better." 

And,  apparently  the  wine-shop  failed,  else  that  man  in 
the  making,  little  Piero  of  the  gold-piece,  would  not  have 
come  beating  his  knuckles  on  the  postern  whose  hinges 
were  held  in  place  by  wooden  pegs. 

"Captain  Tribalda!  for  the  Lord's  sake,  Captain  Tri- 
balda !"  he  panted,  then  fell  to  tearing  his  lean  chest  with 
hooked  finger-tips  as  if  either  his  lungs  were  bursting  or 
that  the  thumping  of  his  heart  choked  him,  both  being  the 
truth.  Never  before  had  he  run  so  fast 

"Captain  Tribalda  ?  Now  what  do  you  want  with  Cap- 
tain Tribalda?"  The  well-fed  scullion  who  opened  the 
door  was  leisurely.  Also  it  is  always  a  pleasant  thing  to 
exercise  a  little  superiority. 

"That  is  for  himself  alone." 

"Then  he  must  wait,  and  you,  too!  Captain  Tribalda 
rode  out  an  hour  ago,"  and  the  door  would  have  been  shut 
in  Piero's  face  if  he  had  not  thrust  a  lean  arm,  naked  to 
the  elbow,  between  edge  and  jamb :  the  four  inches  of  oak 
would  have  snapped  it  like  a  rotten  stick. 

"Then  the  Madonna— the  signorina.  For  the  Lord's 
sake,  Signer  Luca,  let  me  speak  with  the  signorina/'  and 
Piero,  his  breath  coming  back  but  his  heart  still  choking 
him,  fell  whimpering. 

Already  the  scullion  had  raised  a  hand  to  strike  down 
the  lean  arm  whose  small  bones  looked  so  inquisitively  out 
o'  doors  at  his  own  fat,  but  two  things  stayed  the  blow. 
That  the  Madonna  was  good  to  the  poor  was  known,  al*> 


218  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

that  she  could  express  her  displeasure  with  clarity  and 
strength ;  then  it  is  pleasant  to  he  called  signor  even  when 
one  is  no  signor  at  all,  but  just  a  plain  washer  of  dishes; 
so  Luca  held  his  hand  and  questioned  instead. 

"First  Tribalda,  now  the  Madonna !  What  does  a  rat 
in  a  bundle  of  rags  want  with  Tribalda  and  the  Ma' 
donna?" 

"That  is  not  your  business."  In  his  desperation  Piero 
plucked  up  assertive  courage,  not  much  but  sufficient. 
Luca,  remembering  the  clarity  and  vigour  gave  way. 

"Into  the  garden  with  you:  maybe  you  will  find  her 
there.  Only  if  trouble  comes  of  it  your  skin  will  pay !" 
and  by  way  of  earnest-money  Luca  aimed  a  cuff  at  the 
lad's  ear  as  he  passed.  But  there  Piero  was  in  his  element : 
ever  since  he  had  found  feet  strong  enough  to  take  him 
tottering  along  a  Brettinoro  street  he  had  learned  the 
penalty  of  weakness  in  a  rough  world.  With  a  swift  duck 
of  the  head  he  evaded  the  blow,  even  finding  time  for  a 
"Grazie,  Luca,"  before  his  bare  feet  carried  him  garden- 
wards  at  top  speed. 

He  found  her  at  the  sundial,  alone,  the  latest  guest  of 
The  Custom  having  passed  on  his  road  to  Eavenna,  but 
leaving  behind  him  the  effects  of  that  unconscious  influence 
which  is  surely  one  of  the  millstones  of  God,  grinding 
slowly  to  the  shaping  of  lives  not  our  own.  Half  wrapped 
in  his  dreams,  part  in  the  material  world  and  part  in  a 
world  of  his  imagining,  within  five  minutes  the  Florentine 
had  forgotten  his  words,  but  she  remembered. 

"Love  draws  all  to  the  divine  equality  of  heaven ;"  "Love 
uplifts  and  uplifting  is  uplifted;"  "To  set  our  little  great- 
ness first  and  deny  love  is  to  deny  God — love  is  the  highest 
law."  "Love  gives  and  glories  in  the  giving."  No,  never 
again  could  she  be  as  she  had  been  before  his  coming. 

And  yet,  what  were  they,  these  two?  Ships  that  pass 
in  the  night?  Again,  no!  That  is  a  mistake;  such  a 


TONIO  PLAYS  MICARE  AND  LOSES      219 

passing  in  darkness  is  writ  in  water.  The  truth,  rather, 
is  that  from  all  points  come  touches  on  the  wet  and  plas- 
tic clay,  leaving  behind  indelible  impressions  which  may 
shape  a  beauty  or  push  deformity  into  stronger  relief.  So 
it  had  been  with  Lucia  Faldora. 

Hearing  the  quick  pad,  pad,  of  naked  feet  on  the  hard 
path  she  turned,  one  hand  still  resting  on  the  gnomon  of 
the  dial.  Naturally  her  fears  flew  to  the  household  in  the 
back  lane  where  poor  food,  and  too  little  of  it,  opened  a 
ready  door  to  heat  fevers. 

"What  is  wrong,  Piero?    Marietta?    Has  she " 

"No,  Madonna,  no;  worse  than  that — Lippo  has  caught 
the  Englishman." 

"Lippo?  The  Englishman?  Marco's  scarpeltinof 
\Yhcn — How?"  In  her  surprised  bewilderment  her  heart 
spake  out  of  its  fulness ;  Marco  was  Marco  in  her  thoughts. 

"There  in  the  fields ;  not  Lippo  himself  but  Giro  of  the 
dogs.  And,  Madonna,  they  say — they  say " 

But  what  they  said  Piero  could  not  tell  because  his 
heart  was  choking  him.  That  stout  little  heart,  so  brave 
to  face  the  world  for  the  mother  at  home,  fluttered  into 
\\\<  throat  at  the  very  thought  of  Giro  of  the  dogs.  Going 
on  one  knee  she  beckoned  him  to  come  close,  laid  an  arm 
about  the  patched  shoulders  and  with  the  other  hand 
pushed  the  damp  tangle  of  hair  back  from  the  forehead. 
The  Great  Mother  herself  could  hardly  have  been  more 
understanding;  almost  at  the  first  touch  he  calmed,  gulp- 
in  <r  down  his  excitement. 

"Tell  me  quietly.  Where  were  you,  and  what  happened 
to  the  Englishman" 

"We  were  all  in  the  field,  Madonna,  'Rico  the  gobbo's 
field.  I  was  working  with  the  other  men  when  the  Eng- 
lishman came  and  stood  talking." 

He  paused  for  breath  and  the  girl  nodded  comprehend- 
ingly.  'Rico  the  gobbo's  field  lay  on  the  outskirts  of  Bret- 


220  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

tinoro  towards  the  twisted  valleys  between  the  upper  hills, 
that  is  to  say,  in  the  direction  of  Lippo's  camp.  Living  all 
her  live  in  Faldora  she  knew  its  every  inch  of  surrounding 
country  and  saw  the  humpback's  field  as  clearly  as  if  she 
stood  upon  the  spur  of  rocks  which  overlooked  its  scanti- 
ness— a  sun-steeped,  triangiilar  patch  labouriously  cleared 
of  stones,  and  being  enlarged  little  by  little,  as  year  after 
year  a  few  yards  were  won  back  from  the  stony  grip  of 
nature.  That,  no  doubt,  was  the  work  of  the  day  and  an- 
other custom  of  Brettinoro.  Except  to  such  as  Piero  no 
pay  would  pass,  but  the  folk  would  work  by  turns  on  eacli 
other's  fields  and  so  each  in  turn  reap  a  benefit.  That, 
naturally,  meant  labouring  at  the  edge  of  the  cleansed 
ground,  and  '"Rico's  field  being  an  outpost  in  the  struggle 
with  nature,  from  that  edge  wild  country  swept  hillwards. 

"Yes?"  she  said,  beginning  to  understand  what  had 
happened.  "The  Englishman  came  and  talked?" 

"Yes,  Madonna,  asking  questions,  and  while  he  talked 
there  was  the  noise  of  horses  coming  through  the  woods — 
shod  horses,  for  their  shoes  clanked.  'Best  go/  said  'Eico. 
'Why  so?'  said  'Tonio — we  call  him  'Tonio  Madonna, 
though  he  is  a  stranger.  But  'Rico  only  shook  his  head 
and  said  that  a  man's  legs  were  the  gift  of  God.  Perhaps 
'Tonio  did  not  understand  what  'Eico  meant,  though  we 
knew,  for  he  kept  on  talking  while  we  worked  on  until,  the 
horses  coming  closer  every  minute,  somebody,  who  I 
don't  know  for  nobody  lifted  his  head,  but  somebody  said, 
'It  may  be  Lippo.  Go,  or  stay  for  a  fool/  and,  Madonua, 
he  stayed.  'Lippo?'  said  he,  peering  up  into  the  wood 
where  the  noise  came  from,  'Lippo  knows  better  than  to 
touch  Faldora!'  'Once  that  was  so,  but  now  maybe  yes, 
maybe  no/  said  'Eico,  'There's  more  Faldoras  than  one/ 
and  we  all  went  on  working." 

"Yes?"  she  said  again,  her  white  fingertips  still  busy 
in  the  dark  hair — hair  overfine  for  one  of  his  birth  and 


'TONIO  PLAYS  MICAKE  AND  LOSES      221 

nurturing;  had  it  been  coarser  it  would  have  been  better 
for  him.    "Yes,  what  then?" 

"Then,  Madonna,  no  one  said  anything  more  but  all 
worked  on  as  if  we  had  never  heard  the  noise  of  horses, 
only  I  saw  that  'Tonio  had  slipped  his  hand  to  the  end  of 
the  great  stick  he  always  carried,  and  stood  staring  up 
into  the  trees.  Then  Giro  came." 

"Giro  ?  That  is  the  Giro  who  went  messages  for  Signor 
Carlo?  Giro  who  had  his  head  bound  up  three  months 
ago?" 

"Yes,  Madonna,  where  'Tonio  broke  it  with  his  stick. 
That  is  why  they  called  him  fool  for  not  going  while  there 
was  time.  You  see,  we  know  Giro." 

"But  he  stayed?" 

"Yes,  Madonna,  and  we  worked  until  Giro  came." 

"What  happened  then?    Quickly,  Piero,  quickly." 

But  instead  of  answering  Piero  fell  to  crying  bitterly. 
At  the  postern,  faced  with  refusal,  he  had  whimpered  in 
little  catches  of  the  breath  like  a  troubled  child,  now,  with 
all  he  had  whimpered  after  granted,  the  lung-deep  sobs  so 
tore  his  throat  that  'Sandro,  lurking  watchful  out  of  sight, 
pushed  his  way  hastily  through  the  bushes,  but,  seeing  the 
group,  kept  his  distance. 

"Piero,  Piero !"  cried  Lucia  affrighted  by  the  outburst 
of  childish  passion,  "what  has  happened?  Tonio?  I« 
'Tonio  dead?" 

''Xo,  Madonna— at  least  I  think  not,  not  yet  But,  oh, 
Madonna,  if  Lippo  hears  what  I  have  done  he  will  burn  the 
mother's  house  as  he  burned  Margotti's — the  mother,  little 
Marietta,  all  of  us,  all  of  us." 

' -Never !  Have  no  fear  of  that  Piero ;  no,  have  no  fear. 
I  promise  you— I !  When  did  I  ever  promise  and  fail: 
No,  Piero,  no,  have  no  fear  of  Lippo,  no  fear  at  all.  Tell 
me  what  happened  when  Giro  came." 

But  as  the  boy— what  was  he  but  a  child  ?— fought  for 


222  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

control,  swallowing  his  sobs  and  then  breaking  out  afresh 
as  spirit  or  flesh  got  the  upper  hand — the  Madonna  had 
never  broken  a  promise,  all  Brettinoro  knew  that ;  but  this 
was  the  mother's  life,  all  their  lives,  and  Lippo  was  a  cruel 
devil;  all  Brettinoro  knew  that  too — her  thoughts  flew 
back  to  the  edge  of  the  wood  where  man  and  nature  fought 
for  mastery.  It  was  easy  enough  to  picture,  the  half  score 
of  bent  backs,  the  faces  to  the  earth  that  they  might  not 
see  who  came,  or  seem  to  know  that  any  one  came  at  all, 
and  the  one  straight  figure  standing  alert  behind  the  line 
of  cowards 

But  at  that  she  checked  herself.  Coward  was  easy  said, 
but  was  their  fear  not  reasonable?  Margotti  had  spoken  a 
warning,  had  died  for  speaking,  and  who  had  avenged  Mar- 
gotti? Could  Brettinoro  be  blamed  that  it  saved  its  own 
skin?  Faldora  of  Pesaro,  with  his  generations  of  pride 
behind  him,  had  stirred  no  finger  to  avenge  Margotti ;  who 
was  she  to  cry  coward  on  Brettinoro?  Nor,  with  Piero 
Buti  sobbing  his  pinched  face  white  at  her  shoulder,  was 
it  hard  to  understand  why  the  backs  were  bent.  No !  It  is 
always  easy  for  those  who  have  never  faced  the  terror  of 
death  to  cry  "coward";  Brettinoro  had  its  women  and 
babes  to  remember.  Taking  Piero's  grimy  hand  in  hers 
she  patted  it  gently. 

"Be  easy,  little  son;  no  harm  shall  come  to  Marietta 
or  any  of  them.  Now  tell  me  what  happened  when  Giro 
came?  See,  that  you  may  be  quite  content  I  promise  to 
have  them  all  safe  in  the  Casa,  or  Captain  Tribalda  will 
send  men  to  guard  them.  You  were  very  brave  to  come: 
now  tell  me." 

"Thank  you,  Madonna.  And  I  was  not  brave  at  all,  it 
was  just  that  I  did  not  stop  to  think;  I  only  remembered 
the  signer's  gold  piece  and  ran  as  soon  as  it  was  safe.  Then 
just  now  I  grew  afraid — Margotti  warned  the  signor  and — 
and " 


223 

"Have  no  fear,  no  fear  at  all.    Tell  me  quickly." 

"There  were  five  of  them,  Giro  of  the  dogs  and  four 
others.  They  came  through  the  wood  and  as  soon  as  they 
were  clear  in  sight  I  heard  Giro  swear,  then  he  called  an 
order  and  two  trotted  to  the  right  and  two  to  the  left  while 
he  came  straight  on,  slower  than  the  others,  so  that  they 
were  on  each  side  of  us  when  he  reached  where  we  were. 
Then  he  drew  rein,  took  off  his  hat  and  laughed.  'My 
saint's  day  for  sure,  though  I  never  knew  I  had  a  saint!' 
he  said.  TCeep  your  distance/  said  'Tonio  'unless  you 
want  your  head  broken  a  second  time/  But  Giro  only 
laughed  again  as  he  covered.  'Take  your  choice,  my  cud- 
geller;  come  peaceably  or  we'll  make  an  end  here  and 
now/  he  said.  'Clear  the  way,  you  others,  clear  the  way/ 
and  we  drew  into  two  bunches  to  let  him  through.  Xo  one 
said  anything  and,  Madonna,  with  five  of  them,  and,  re- 
membering Margotti,  what  was  there  to  be  said?" 

"Nothing,"  she  answered,  a  wail  in  her  voice  for  the 
first  time.  "Never  mind,  what  they  said :  what  happened  ? 
Quickly,  Piero,  oh,  quickly,  quickly!" 

"Madonna,  I  tell  it  the  best  way  I  can.  Giro  pushed 
through  us  and  sat  looking  down  on  'Tonio,  a  laugh  in 
his  eyes  but  the  teeth  showing;  not  a  laugh  as  if  he  wa* 
merry,  it  made  me  more  afraid  than  all  his  words.  'Five !' 
said  'Tonio,  'one  more  than  on  the  Brettinoro  road !  Then 
there  were  two  against  you,  now  there  is  one:  Stout  hearts 
you  have,  you  thieves/  I  think  Madonna,  he  was  hoping 
to  anger  them  and  so  some  way  steal  a  profit.  But  Giro 
only  sat  smiling.  He  had  his  sword  drawn  and  the  four 
also,  and  all  were  pointed  in  at  'Tonio.  We  just  rtood 
and  looked  on!  'Which  is  it?'  said  Giro,  'Peaceably  liv- 
ing or  peaceably  dead?  It  is  one  way  or  the  other,  my 
cudgeller?'  and  'Tonio  leaped  for  him." 

"Yes?"  said  the  girl  as  Piero,  telling  his  tale  his  own 
way,  paused  to  gather  his  wits.  She  was  trembling  in 


224  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

little  shivers  as  if  cold,  and  yet  the  sun  was  scorching 
hot  on  the  parched  grass.  "Since  they  did  not  kill  him 
is  he  sorely  hurt?" 

"No,  Madonna,  nor  any  one.  He  struck,  but  Giro  was 
ready  for  him  and  bent  sidewise  so  that  the  stick  slid 
past  his  leg  and  rattled  on  the  saddle,  and  before  he  was 
steady  on  his  feet  again  the  four  at  the  sides  had  him 
hemmed.  Even  then  we  saw  his  shoulder  heave  as  if  to 
strike  again  and  die,  but  he  changed  his  mind.  'I  fooled 
you  once  and  broke  your  head  in  the  fooling;  whafs  been 
done  before  can  be  done  again/  he  said,  and  dropped  the 
cudgel.  'It's  you  who  are  fooled/  said  Giro,  and,  Ma- 
donna, there  was  no  laugh  in  his  eyes.  'Better  have  died 
now,  for,  by  God!  You'll  pay!'  They  had  him  in  their 
grip  by  that  time,  and  when  Giro  rode  back  into  the  trees 
I  ran  here." 

"And  is  that  all?" 

"All,  Madonna,  except  that  'Rico  said  Giro  was  right. 
The  Englishman  was  a  fool  not  to  have  died  quick  and 
clean.  You  see,  they  remember  Margotti  in  Brettinoro, 
and  there  is  little  to  choose  between  Lippo  and  Giro  of  the 
dogs." 

"Giro  of  the  dogs?    Why  do  they  call  him  that?" 

"Because,  Madonna,  when  not  on  horseback  he  has  five 
or  six  at  his  heels,  or  so  they  say;  brutes  fit  to  tear  the 
throat  out  of  a  wolf."  Which  was  an  exaggeration  and 
goes  to  show  how  truth  grows  to  legend  in  the  telling :  not 
even  Pluto,  savage  though  he  was,  could  have  faced  a  wolf, 
brute  to  brute. 

"Yes,  I  remember  now:  he  even  brought  them  to  the 
Casa  at  times.  Come!"  But  as  she  rose,  her  arm  still 
across  the  lad's  shoulders,  she  caught  sight  of  'Sandro  and 
called  him,  nor  was  there  any  wasted  time  telling  the 
news. 

"Praise  God!  the  Master  is  in  Arzano!"  was  'Sandro's 


TOXIO  PLAYS  MICARE  AND  LOSES      225 

first  comment,  though,  from  the  rage  and  fear  in  his 
face  as  he  listened,  the  girl  guessed  something  of  the  com- 
radeship between  these  two  who  both  loved  the  Master 

"Why?" 

"Because,  signorina,  if  need  be,  and  let  Count  Ascanio 
say  what  he  might,"  he  answered  bluntly,  "He  would  face 
Lippo  single-handed  for  'Tonio's  sake.  Though  it  would 
not  be  single-handed,  there  would  be  at  least  two  of  us," 
he  added. 

The  girl  flushed  as  she  listened.  Not  so  many  days 
before  her  pride  would  have  flashed  out  in  cold  rebuke  at 
the  hinted  censure,  even  though  conscious  that  it  was  de- 
served, but  not  now.  'Sandro  spoke  out  of  love  and  love 
was  the  highest  law. 

"Come"  she  said  again.    "Let  us  find  Tribalda." 

But  as  they  went,  all  silent,  Piero's  hand  caught  in  hers 
with  a  comforting  firmness,  they  met  Faldora  instead  of 
the  Captain  of  the  Guard.  Every  day  he  seemed  to  Lucia 
to  grow  gaunter,  leaner,  more  rigidly  upright,  but  up- 
right through  visible  effort.  Yet  there  was  no  abatement 
in  the  vigilance  of  the  fierce  eyes  burning  deep  in  their 
over-hung  sockets,  for  now  he  halted  them. 

"What  now?"  he  said,  pointing  a  long  brown  finger  at 
Piero's  tear-stained  face.  "Is  it  the  fever  again?  We  must 
see  to  our  own,  my  girl." 

"It  is  Lippo  again,"  she  retorted.  "He  has  laid  hands 
on  'Tonio,  the  Englishman." 

He  stared  at  her  a  moment  blankly,  then  the  eyes  nar- 
rowed, the  nostrils  widened  as  teeth  showed  below  a  curled 
upper  lip,  and  there  broke  over  the  lean  old  face  a  smile 
so  terrible  that  the  girl  shivered  as  she  had  shivered  in 
the  sunlight. 

"God  be  praised!  By  Holy  Paul!  at  last  Lippo  has 
touched  Faldora,  Lippo  and  the  Signer  Roverella!  Oh. 
yes,  he  had  touched  Faldora  before,  but  this  is  for  all  the 


226  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

world  to  see.  Our  private  hurts  we  keep  to  ourselves. 
Tell  me,  boy,  when  and  how  ?" 

But  Lucia,  knowing  the  story  and  feeling  the  grimy 
hand  held  in  hers  wince  at  the  thought  of  such  an  ordeal 
as  examination  at  the  Illustrissimo's  hands,  took  the  tell- 
ing upon  herself,  shortening  the  tale  yet  missing  out  noth- 
ing which  might  count.  And  as  he  listened  Faldora 
nodded  from  time  to  time,  nodded  curtly,  sharply,  as  the 
acute  eagerness  of  five  and  twenty  might,  or  flung  in  a 
word  or  two  by  way  of  underscoring. 

"Aye,  Giro!  The  Chiseller  was  right:  God  knows  how 
long  Signer  Roverella  has  flung  friendly  dice  Avith  the 
devil — and  Brettinoro  stood  by  ?  Urn ;  yes,  I  do  not  blame 
them,  they  had  Margotti  to  remember  and  their  skin  is 
their  skin — 'Rico  was  right:  the  Englishman  had  better 
have  died  where  he  stood.  God  rest  him,  for  he  had  cour- 
age." 

"But,"  said  the  girl,  "Tribalda  will  surely  be  in  time  if 
he  makes  haste?" 

"I  will  be  no  such  fool :  haste  is  own  sister  to  failure." 

"Then  you  may  be  too  late,  and  the  Englishman — 

"One  more  or  less  matters  nothing ;  what  matters  is  that 
when  I  strike  I  strike  home.  The  boy  has  brought  the 
best  news  I  have  heard  in  five  years;  give  him  a  double 
crown  piece  and  let  him  go." 

"He  is  afraid  of  Lippo,  and  I  have  promised  they  shall 
be  housed  in  the  Casa  or  guarded  at  home." 

At  that,  annoyance  darkened  Faldora's  face.  "Here 
at  the  Casa !"  he  repeated  vexedly.  "That  is  a  pity.  The 
bait  would  have  drawn  Lippo  as  it  drew  him  to  Margotti. 
But  a  promise  is  a  promise,  so  it  cannot  be  helped.  Only 
not  at  the  Casa.  A  guard  will  be  best;  not  too  many,  just 
few  enough  to  draw  Lippo  and  we'll  pen  him  from  each 
end  of  the  vico  like  a  rat  in  a  trap. 


'TONIO  PLAYS  MICARE  AND  LOSES      227 

"But,"  she  protested,  "if  harm  touches  them  it  is  the 
honour  of  Faldora." 

"Leave  Faldora's  honour  to  me!"  he  broke  in  sharply. 
"As  to  the  Englishman,  he  must  take  his  chance.  Only," 
and  he  shook  his  head,  "I  would  rather  he  had  died  in 
'Rico's  field;  it  would  have  been  cleaner,  yes,  cleaner. 
But  I  will  talk  to  Tribalda  when  he  returns.  By  Paul! 
there'll  be  an  end  to — to — Lippo!"  But  though  he  spoke 
of  Lippo,  and  Lippo  only,  it  is  to  be  doubted  if  Signer 
Roverella's  name  had  not  come  first  to  his  thoughts. 


CHAPTEE  XXIII 

HAWK'S    FIGHTING    CHANCE 

HEMMED  between  two  horsemen,  with  two  more  behind 
and  one  in  front,  his  hands  bound  and  the  end  of  the  cord 
twisted  round  Giro's  wrist,  Anthony  Hawk  put  aside  all 
thought  of  escape.  He  loved  life  neither  more  nor  less 
than  the  average  man,  and  would  have  faced  death  both 
boldly  and  cheerfully  if  the  end  might  have  come  by  way 
of  battle  and  hot  blood;  but,  having  all  a  healthy  man's 
will  to  live  strong  in  him,  he  had  caught  at  the  alternative 
of  present  life  which  Giro  had  offered ;  not,  be  it  said,  for 
the  sake  of  the  few  hours  it  brought,  but  because  it  al- 
ways kept  the  door  of  hope  on  the  latch.  So  far  as  he 
could  see  it  would  serve  no  good  end  if  he  were  growing 
cold  on  his  back  in  the  humpback's  field  instead  of  tramp- 
ing under  the  shade  with  the  hot  smell  of  the  horses  all 
about  him:  the  one  was  a  final  end,  the  other — well,  at 
the  worst  it  was  less  final.  As  to  Giro's  threats,  these  did 
not  trouble  him.  He  might  be  as  cruel  a  devil  as  his 
master,  but  they  would  scarcely  torture  him  in  cold  blood 
for  an  honest  blow  on  the  skull  given  three  months  before : 
which  is  as  much  as  to  say  that  he  looked  at  Lippo  and 
Giro  through  English  eyes  and,  as  we  all  do,  saw  some- 
thing of  himself  in  those  with  whom  he  rubbed  shoulders. 

Nor,  for  the  moment  at  least,  was  Giro  devilish,  or 
even  spiteful,  in  this  his  hour  of  triumph.  There  was  no 
driving  the  horses  at  a  trot  that  the  prisoner  might  either 
burst  his  lungs  in  order  to  keep  pace  or  be  dragged  at 

228 


HAWK'S  FIGHTING  CHANCE         229 

a  rope's  end.  Then,  too,  a  gallop  under  the  trees  had 
great  possibilities  to  an  ingenious  mind — a  crossing  of  the 
rope  behind  a  tree  trunk  at  top  speed  and  the  panting 
flesh  at  the  end  would  suffer  violence :  or  the  under-brush 
would  trip  the  racing  feet  to  the  sport  of  those  who  were 
onlookers,  or — oh  yes,  there  were  possibilities!  Yet  Giro 
seized  upon  none  of  them,  and  'Tonio  told  himself  that 
growing  hot  in  the  shade  was  better  than  growing  cold 
in  the  sun  in  'Rico's  field.  If  he  could  have  looked  into 
Giro's  thoughts  he  might  have  been  less  certain  of  the  gain, 
but  which  of  us  knows  all  the  thoughts  of  another?  Not 
one!  and  so  'Tonio  was  content  with  his  choice. 

For  a  time  no  one  spoke,  nor  was  it  Giro  who  at  last 
broke  the  silence. 

"When  shall  we  blindfold  him?"  said  the  fellow  who 
rode  on  'Tonio's  left. 

"I  have  been  thinking — but  why  blindfold  him  at  all?" 
answered  Giro.  "We  only  blindfold  those  who  might  tell 
our  secrets  when  they  leave  camp." 

"And  he?" 

"Won't  leave,"  Giro  said  laconically,  but,  after  a  pause, 
added  thoughtfully.  "As  to  the  blindfolding,  a  thumb  in 
the  eves  would  do  as  a  beginning  of — of — the  rest  that's 
to  come.  But  then,  he  might  wish  to  look  at  himself  before 
all's  over.  No,  we'll  leave  him  as  he  is.  Was  it  five  or 
six  new  lads  came  into  camp  this  morning?" 

"You  will  do  well  to  hold  your  tongue  over  that." 

"Chut !  chut  1"  chided  Giro  gently.  "What  harm,  since 
he  is  going  to  stay  with  us?  How  many?" 

"Six." 

"And  enough!  The  fewer  the  mouths  the  fuller  the 
hollies !  Here's  a  hint  for  you,  all  four— let  young  Carlo 
promise  what  he  will,  but  when  all's  said  a  man  is  his 
own  host  paymaster.  Loot,  lads,  loot:  loot  though  young 
Carlo  howl  curses !  If s  not  often  the  sacking  of  a  Cast 


230  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

Faldora  will  come  your  way.  Which,"  and  Giro  gave  the 
halter-end  a  jerk  by  way  of  emphasis,  "is  letting  you  into 
a  secret!  But  by  the  looks  of  your  wrists  you  are  no 
blabber,  nor  likely  to  be,"  and  again  the  rope  was  jerked, 
not  brutally  but  that  the  grim  humour  might  be  fully 
savoured. 

"Better  be  safe  and  blindfold  him,"  urged  the  fellow  who 
had  spoken  before. 

Perhaps  a  glimpse  of  one  of  the  band  on  outpost  duty 
moved  him.  But  Giro  was  obstinate. 

"No  need:  he  will  be  as  safe  as  Eicci." 

"Eicci?  but  Eicci  is  dead?" 

"Just  so.  Eicci  and  Margotti  can  hold  their  tongues 
with  any  man,  and  so  will  our  cudgeller." 

"Margotti?  Lippo  was  too  rough  with  Margotti,  or  at 
least  too  rough  with  the  children.  I  had  a  bambino  of 
my  own  once."' 

"He'll  be  proud  of  his  father !  Where  is  he  now  ?"  asked 
Giro  curiously. 

"Dead.  It  was  there  in  Florence.  I  killed  a  White  and 
ran  for  it,  leaving  the  boy,  and — and  he  died.  The  Whites 
would  not  feed  him  and  the  Blacks  dared  not — God  curse 
them  all  for  brutes  and  cowards." 

"And  what  better  were  you  at  Margotti's  ?"  said  'Tonio, 
"Brutes  and  cowards  all  of  you !" 

"So  you  have  a  tongue?  Use  it  while  you  may !  Hulloa !" 
and  raising  his  voice  Giro  called  to  the  sentry.  "Is  Lippo 
in  camp?" 

"He  was  an  hour  ago.    Who  have  you  there?" 

"You  will  see  presently !  Faith  of  Giro,  he'll  show  you 
sport  before  all's  over,"  and  with  that  they  rode  on. 

Because  of  the  shelter  of  the  surrounding  trees  it  had 
been  impossible  for  Anthony  Hawk  to  guess  his  where- 
abouts, but  always  his  feet  had  been  conscious  of  an  up- 


HAWK'S  FIGHTING  CHANCE         231 

ward  lifting  of  the  rough  ground  under  them.  Now  the 
steepnesf  sharpened,  and  passing  between  two  wooded  spurs, 
whoso  abrupt  slopes  guarded  a  narrow  flat,  they  came 
suddenly  upon  the  camp  with  its  wooden  huts  and  leisured 
movement  of  easy  life.  For,  looking  about  him  with 
something  deeper  than  curiosity,  it  was  the  orderly  dis- 
order, the  assured  tranquillity,  which  struck  'Tonio :  order- 
ly in  that  there  was  no  quarrelling,  disordered  in  so  far  that 
every  man  seemed  to  follow  his  whim  of  the  moment,  and 
so  tranquil  that  beyond  a  laugh,  the  lilt  of  a  song  or 
whistle,  no  sound  broke  the  level  hum  of  life  where  men's 
voices,  and  the  stamping  of  horsehoofs  under  the  surround- 
ing shade,  blent  into  an  indistinguishable  murmur.  Not 
old  Ascanio  Faldora,  with  Tribalda  under  him  to  enforce 
orders,  could  have  imposed  a  wiser  discipline. 

The  truth  was  Lippo  understood  his  lambs  and  their 
need  for  careful  shepherding,  lest  the  wolf  in  their  sheep's 
clothing  break  bounds.  Their  freedom  was  their  own, 
but  the  liberty  must  be  liberty  without  licence.  All  knew 
that  any  disturbance  of  the  peace  would  be  stamped  out 
pitilessly  lest  the  quarrel  should  spread,  and  the  interests 
of  all  suffer.  It  will  be  seen,  therefore,  that  in  this  high- 
way cut-purse  there  were  so  clearly  the  makings  of  a  great 
condottiere  that  Lippo's  faith  was  justified:  let  him  sack 
Faldora,  fighting  for  Faldora,  and  a  dozen  greater  than 
Faldora  would  hire  his  sword  at  his  own  price 

Because  of  the  crowning  venture  in  the  near  future  all 
potty  hunting  for  coppers  upon  the  road  had  been  aban- 
doned and  Giro's  return  with  Tonio  in  leash  stirred  the 
interest  of  a  full  camp.  Round  they  gathered  as  pigeons 
gather  round  a  handful  of  flung  com,  a  wild  and  diverse 
m-w,  men  from  the  south,  swarthy,  almost,  as  Moors,  men 
from  the  north  with  their  tattered  sheepskins  still  upon 
their  shoulders,  men  of  the  cities  with  the  city's  stamp  of 


232  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

vice  in  their  cunning  faces,  men  of  the  fields,  stupid  as 
their  own  sheep  and  hardy  as  their  own  goats.  Nor  was  that 
the  sole  diversity.  Some  were  young  as  innocence,  others 
old  as  sin,  but  with  their  fresh  youth  a  lie  and  their  age 
not  so  broken  but  that  the  devil  had  a  sturdy  use  for  them 
yet. 

To  all  the  feud  between  Lippo's  jackal  and  the  English- 
man was  well  known.  Many  were  the  questions  shouted, 
but  Giro  put  their  clamourings  all  aside,  nor  when  idle- 
ness began  to  make  rough  sport  of  his  prisoner  would  he 
permit  the  violence. 

"Let  him  be,  all  of  you.  He  is  Lippo's  first,  then  mine, 
though  mine  already  by  Lippo's  promise.  And  you'll  lose 
nothing  by  waiting.  D'you  think  I  have  nursed  him  all 
the  way  from  'Rico's  field  for  pure  love !  Where's  Lippo  ? 
In  his  quarters?  Then  clear  a  road/'  and  with  a  touch  of 
the  spur  he  drove  his  horse  forward. 

But  once  clear  of  the  throng  he  slipped  from  the  saddle, 
threw  the  reins  to  a  comrade  and  went  forward  on  foot, 
'Tonio  keeping  step  a  yard  or  two  behind.  Already  Hawk 
was  in  doubt — would  it  be  better  if  he  were  growing  cold 
in  the  heat  of  'Rico's  field  ?  It  would  at  least  be  an  end, 
whereas,  if  Giro's  threats  meant  anything,  threats  the 
more  sinister  for  their  very  vagueness,  there  was  worse  in 
store.  But  that  ineradicable  tenacity  of  life  which  is  cer- 
tainly God-given,  and  therefore  has  nothing  of  cowardice 
in  it,  drove  out  the  doubt,  stiffening  his  nerve  as  he  set 
his  shoulders  more  squarely.  Besides,  in  'Rico's  field  the 
best  he  could  have  hoped  for  was  such  a  hampered  blow 
with  his  cudgel  that  it  could  have  done  little  hurt,  whereas 
now  it  would  surely  go  hard  with  him  if,  hook  or  crook,  he 
did  not  take  grim  toll  before  the  end  came.  Sooner  or 
later  they  must  loose  his  hands.  The  thought  added  yet 
another  inch  to  the  straightness  of  his  backbone  when, 


HAWK'S  FIGHTING  CHANCE          233 

presently,  he  faced  the  condottiere  in  the  making,  faced 
him,  not  with  a  swagger,  hardly  even  defiantly,  but  rather, 
after  the  manner  of  his  race,  like  a  man  unafraid  and  sure 
of  himself. 

Lippo  was  not  alone.  For  the  past  half  hour  he  had 
been  concerting  final  measures  with  Carlo  Faldora:  that 
is  to  say,  he  detailed  just  as  much  of  his  plans  as  pleased 
him,  listened  to  young  Faldora's  comments  or  suggestions, 
and,  while  assenting  to  the  latter,  held  his  intentions  un- 
changed. At  the  darkening  of  the  open  doorway  both 
looked  up. 

"Signers,"  said  Giro,  triumph  in  his  voice  as,  the  latent 
cruelty  in  him  flashing  to  the  surface,  he  drew  'Tonio  to 
the  front  with  a  savage  jerk  of  the  rope,  "I  claim  a  promise: 
by  all  the  laws  he's  mine." 

"The  chiseller !"  said  Faldora,  while  in  the  same  breath 
Lippo  cried,  "By  all  the  gods!  it's  the  cudgeller!  Giro, 
you  have  wrought  better  than  you  knew!  Now,  Signer 
Carlo,  well  sift  the  truth  and  make  all  clear.  Where 
and  how  did  you  trap  him?" 

"In  'Rico's  field.  How?  Oh,  easily,  easily,"  answered 
Giro  airily  as  he  twitched  the  rope.  His  eyes  were  blazing. 

"Five  swords  to  a  stick,"  said  Hawk.  "Yes,  it  waa 
easy." 

"Signers,  both,"  said  Giro  earnestly,  "you  gave  him  to 
me :  months  ago  you  gave  him  to  me,  you  know  you  did." 

"Be  easy ;  you  shall  have  him.  But  first  there  is  a  thing 
or  two  we  must  know.  Shall  I  question  him,  Signor 
Carlo?  Good!  Listen  now,  Hawk— oh,  yes,  we  know 
your  name — why  has  Fieravanti  gone  to  Arzano  ?  Answer 
if  you  don't  want  the  rope  on  your  wrists  to  slip  up  to 
your  neck." 

"I'll  answer  nothing  while  I  am  bound,"  said  Tonic 

"Why  not?" 


234  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

"Because  I  will  not.    Is  that  not  reason  enough  ?" 

"Jerk  the  rope,  Giro.  There,  if  that  were  at  your 
neck " 

"Then  you  would  hear  nothing,  for  I  could  not  answer 
at  all." 

"That  is  good — for  a  chiseller!"  said  Faldora,  and 
laughed.  "Lippo,  he  has  the  best  of  us.  There  is  stuff 
in  the  fellow.  In  his  place  I  would  say  the  same."  Which 
was  true.  Through  the  silence  which  followed  Giro's  dogs 
could  be  heard  yapping  and  snarling,  but  being  trained 
by  hard  discipline  they  kept  away  from  their  master  until 
called. 

"Three  swords  and  one  man  with  bare  hands,"  said 
'Tonio.  "The  odds  are  greater  than  five  against  a  cudgel 
down  in  'Bico's  field.  Trussed  like  a  calf  I'll  answer  noth- 
ing." What  he  would  gain  by  unbound  hands  was  not 
very  clear,  but  he  wanted  time  for  thought.  Then  there 
was  always  this — with  freed  hands  he  could  at  the  worst 
die  fighting,  though  as  yet  he  had  no  mind  to  die. 

"Have  it  so,"  and,  Giro's  sword-point  six  inches  behind 
his  shoulder  blades,  Hawk  found  himself  free.  "Now, 
speak.  Why  has  Fieravanti  gone  to  Arzano?  Oh,  you  need 
not  lie.  We  know  he  has  gone  and  we  know  Tribalda  wants 
more  men:  we  know,  too,  that  Fieravanti  has  a  claim  on 
the  Duke.  Has  he  gone  to  beat  up  recruits?" 

"And  if  I  should  tell  you "  began  'Tonio  slowly.  He 

was  in  doubt  how  to  reply,  whether  to  assert  ignorance,  lie 
or  tell  the  truth:  which  would  best  serve  Faldora  whose 
bread  and  salt  he  ate  ?  From  Giro  he  knew  an  attack  was 
planned,  would  the  truth  hasten  the  assault  prematurely? 
would  a  lie  gain  time  for  Tribalda  to  hunt  men?  But  the 
answer  to  the  first  was  that,  according  to  Giro,  Lippo  had 
men  enough,  and  to  the  second  that  old  Faldora  was  ob- 
stinate, refusing  utterly  to  recruit  the  garrison.  That  left 


HAWK'S  FIGHTING  CHANCE 

his  doubt  where  it  was,  and  so,  hesitating,  he  drawled  and 
stammered  until  Lippo  lost  patience. 

"If?  If?  If?  Who  are  you  to  cry  if s  to  us?  Answer, 
or  by  all " 

But  Carlo  Faldora  cut  the  oath  short.  "The  man  ia 
right.  If  there  is  no  hope  for  him  why  need  he  speak 
at  all.  I  would  not." 

"No  hope;  he's  Giro's!  But  there  are  deaths  and 
deaths." 

"That  is  not  enough ;  give  him  a  hope.  Listen,  Hawk. 
As  between  us  two  there  is  no  love  lost " 

"No,"  said  Hawk,  "You  rode  over  us  outside  Forli,  rode 
over  us  as  if  we  were  dogs." 

"You  should  have  kept  to  the  ditch !  But  that  is  past : 
answer  now  and,  faith  of  Faldora,  you  shall  have  a  fighting 
chance  for  your  life." 

"Signor,  signer,  he's  mine,"  protested  Giro.  "By  all 
the  laws  he's  mine." 

"We  all  know  the  faith  of  Faldora,"  said  Lippo,  with 
a  grim  irony  which  only  Faldora  fully  understood.  "You 
hear,  Hawk?  Answer  and  you  shall  have  your  chance. 
Is  Fieravanti  in  Arzano  seeking  men?" 

Short  as  the  altercation  had  been  it  gave  Tonio  time 
to  set  his  thoughts  in  order.  To  assert  ignorance  would 
not  pass,  to  lie  would  hasten  the  assault  that  the  coming 
of  reinforcements  might  be  forestalled:  neither  of  these 
would  serve,  only  the  truth  remained,  nor,  in  any  case, 
could  he  see  any  hurt  from  the  truth.  There  was  the 
chance  that  Lippo's  plans  were  not  yet  ripe,  and  with 
nothing  to  force  action  there  could  be  the  longer  time 
for  Tribalda  to  convince  Count  Ascanio's  obstainacy :  that 
it  no  longer  needed  convincing  'Tonio  could  not  be  aware, 
but  the  truth  seemed  wisest 


236  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

"No.  The  Duke  sent  for  him  and  there  is  no  question 
of  men  from  Arzano." 

Lippo,  leaning  across  the  table,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
Englishman's,  sat  back  with  a  long  breath.  Here  was 
news  worth  paying  for  and  a  rankling  doubt  set  at  rest. 
"I  believe  him.  It  rings  true.  What  do  you  say,  Signor 
Carlo?" 

Faldora  nodded.  "I  agree,"  he  said  curtly.  Beyond 
Hawk's  shoulder  Giro,  troubled  and  malignant,  peered  in 
watchfulness  at  them  both.  Through  the  silence  the  growl- 
ing and  the  howling  of  the  dogs  sounded  dismally. 

"No  question  of  men  ?"  repeated  Lippo  and  laughed  ex- 
ultantly. "D'you  see  what  that  means?  All's  as  usual! 
There's  no  alert!  Signor  Carlo,  Faldora  is  as  good  as 
yours.  What  guard  is  there  at  night,  Englishman?" 

"What  always  has  been,"  answered  Hawk,  and  Lippo 
smote  the  table  with  his  fist. 

"Nothing  changed?" 

"Nothing/' 

"In  their  sleep!  By  God!  We'll  have  them  in  their 
sleep  by  way  of  Giro's  wooden  hinges !  They  fear  nothing  ? 
eh,  nothing?" 

"I'll  not  say  that  since — no  offence,  signer,"  'Tonio  broke 
off  suddenly  as  he  turned  to  Faldora.  "When  my  master 
heard  that  you — -that  is  when  news  came — Yes,  he  was 
doubtful  and  so  was  Tribalda.  But  Count  Ascanio  would 
believe  nothing:  that  is  the  truth." 

"You  hear,  signer?"  Lippo  showed  his  teeth  in  an 
ironic  smile.  "Truly  a  good  reputation  is  gold  in  the 
pocket  and  we  shall  have  the  spending,  you  and  I.  So  that 
is  the  truth  ?  I  believe  you.  It  agrees  with  what  we  heard 
of  Tribalda.  Well,  Faldora's  faith  is  pledged,  and  the 
truth  is  worth  a  fighting  chance  for  life — a  fighting 
chance,"  he  repeated  with  significant  emphasis. 


HAWK'S  FIGHTING  CHANCE         237 

From  beyond  'Tonio's  shoulder  Giro  thrust  forward  a 
lowering  face. 

"Signer,  there  was  a  promise — he's  mine." 

"So  he  shall  be.  That  is  my  one  virtue — I  always  keep 
my  word.  How  else  could  my  lambs  trust  me?  But  we 
must  remember  the  honour  of  Faldora!  How  to  square 
the  two  is  the  question.  A  fighting  chance?  Let  me  think 
— yes !  by  the  blood  of  Bacchus  I  have  it !  You  shall  have 
him,  Giro — your  sword  to  his  cudgel  ?" 

"I  ask  no  better."  Round  swung  Hawk  on  his  heels, 
looking  across  his  shoulder  into  Giro's  now  more  than 
sullen  face.  This  was  better  than  the  cold  heat  of  'Rico's 
field.  But  Giro  already  had  his  point  drawn  back  to 
strike. 

"That's  no  sport — for  me !  If  that  is  your  last  word  111 
end  him,  here  and  now.  Stir,  dog,  and  I  thrust." 

"Dog?"  Faldora  caught  at  the  word.  "There  is  better 
sport  than  steel  and  cudgel!  Why,  one  lunge  might  end 
it.  Besides,  Giro  has  his  uses  until  Faldora  is  mine.  No; 
but  here  is  sport,  Lippo — -Hawk  against  Giro's  dogs:  a 
fighting  chance  thatl" 


CHAPTEE  XXIV 

— AND  HOW  HE  USED  IT 

ONCE  again  there  was  silence  and  through  the  silence, 
as  if  to  give  point  to  Faldora's  proposal  there  sounded  the 
snap  and  snarl  of  the  dogs,  with  Pluto's  deeper  bay,  full- 
throated  and  menacing,  loud  above  the  rest.  It  was  Giro 
who  spoke,  part  denying,  part  protesting,  almost  whimper- 
ing. 

"No,  signors,  not  that.    My  dogs  are  myself." 

"Why,  that  ends  it,"  said  Lippo,  again  leaning  forward, 
but  this  time  with  his  eyes  on  the  scowling  jackal.  "Dare 
to  strike  him  in  the  back  and  I'll — but  I'll  not  threaten; 
you  know  me  and  understand  well  enough.  The  dogs? 
Signor  Carlo,  that  is  an  inspiration;  see  how  it  makes  all 
clear !  The  dogs  are  Giro,  he  says  so  himself.  Well,  then, 
there  is  my  promise;  what  your  dogs  have  you  have! 
And  Signor  Carlo's  pledge  is  kept  also:  Hawk  shall  have 
his  fighting  chance.  Listen,  Hawk;  if  you  win  through 
your  life  is  yours  and,  by  Paul !  you'll  have  earned  it !  A 
fighting  chance?  Oh,  yes,  a  fighting  chance!"  and  he 
laughed.  Surely  in  Beelzebub's  great  review  of  his  lieu- 
tenants in  "Paradise  Lost"  it  is  an  omission  that  there  is 
not  one  stroke  of  sardonic  humour  ?  A  cruel  devil  is  never 
so  cruel  as  in  the  mockery  of  his  laughter. 

Faldora  joined  in  the  merriment,  joined  heartily,  and 
with  good  reason.  To  kill  two  birds  with  one  stone  is 
proverbially  a  good  day's  work,  here  there  were — how 
many  ?  three  at  the  least,  perhaps  four.  For  one,  he  struck 
Fieravanti.  From  the  first  he  had  disliked  the  maker  of 

238 


—AND  HOW  HE  USED  IT  239 

saints,  later  he  hated  him  and  finally  it  was  to  him  he 
owed  that  he  vas  outcast  from  Faldora  and  driven  into 
open  league  with  a  road-thief.  For  another,  he  struck 
the  Englishman  with  whom  he  had  always  been  on  the 
edge  of  quarrel ;  for  a  third,  he  loathed  Giro's  dogs :  that 
his  two  enemies  should  fly  at  each  others  throats  for  hi- 
sport  was  surely  a  fourth  bird  worth  knocking  off  its  perch  ? 
Come  to  think  of  it,  there  was  even  a  fifth  in  the  assertion 
of  his  superior  dignity:  it  was  his  proposal  which  had 
carried  the  day. 

So,  very  well  content  with  himself,  Faldora  laughed 
while  the  two  just  within  the  threshold  held  each  other  at 
gaze,  both  speculating  whether  or  not  to  make  an  end  there 
and  then.  But  for  his  life's  sake  Giro  dared  not  and,  with 
the  steel  point  quivering  two  feet  away,  Hawk,  teeth  and 
hands  clenched,  saw  no  fair  chance  of  that  toll  his  vexed 
soul  yearned  after.  To  go  alone  into  the  shadows  would 
bo  almost  more  bitter  than  death  itself.  That  the  fighting 
chance  was  a  vile  mockery  he  guessed  from  Lippo's  laugh- 
ter; but  it  was  still  a  chance.  In  a  man  of  Tonic's  hot 
blood  and  abundant  virile  strength  there  is  always  a 
splendid  optimism — it  is  true  he  had  no  closer  acquaint- 
ance with  Giro's  dogs  than  to  know  they  were  ill-tempered 
mongrels. 

Again  it  was  Giro  who  spoke  first. 

"Bare  hands,  signor." 

"No !"  cried  Faldora,  "a  cudgel  at  least,  eh,  Lippo?  a 
cudgel  at  least?" 

"Urn!"  said  Lippo  and,  smiling,  looked  Hawk  up  and 
down  in  thoughtful  speculation  as,  thirteen  hundred  yeaw 
before,  a  Director  of  the  Circus  might  have  appraised  the 
fighting  endurance  of  some  human  food  for  the  maw  of 
tin4  arena.  If  the  muscles  of  the  arms  matched  tho«e 
\\lr.  h  filled  so  well  the  close-fitting  trunks  and  bow  the 
Englishman,  bare-handed,  should  hold  his  own — for  a 


240  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

time.  A  cudgel  would  certainly  help  to  even  the  odds, 
but  it  was  not  wise  to  push  Giro  too  far.  As  Faldora  said, 
he  had  his  uses  until  the  Casa  had  changed  hands.  So 
he  shook  his  head.  "No,  I  think  not.  Are  you  content, 
Hawk?" 

"Content?"  'Tonio's  passion  burst  in  flood.  "Cowards 
all  of  you — cowards  all  three!  Lippo,  Margotti  said  you 
were  a  cruel  devil,  but  he  was  wrong:  the  devil  is  more 
of  a  man!  And  you,  Signer  Faldora?  Are  you  of  the 
same  scum  ?  Will  you  stand  by  and  see  a  man  flung  bare- 
handed to  the  dogs — a  man  who  ate  bread  at  the  same 
table  as  yourself " 

"No  bread  of  my  offering.  All  the  same  you  are  right. 
Lippo,  he  should  have  at  least  a  cudgel." 

"No !  no !  no !"  cried  Giro,  drawing  a  step  nearer  but 
never  lowering  his  point.  "Bare  hands — no  cudgel :  I  took 
him,  he's  mine — mine." 

"If  you  want  sport,  give  me  him  instead,"  urged  Hawk, 
with  a  backward  jerk  of  his  head.  "Dogs?  Dogs  are  no 
Christian  fight." 

"Did  Margotti  say  we  were  Christians?"  gibed  Lippo. 
"My  word  stands,  Giro.  It  is  your  fighting  chance, 
Hawk :  make  the  most  of  it  for  you'll  get  no  better.  And 
why  should  it  not  be  sport  ?  I  see  no  reason !  When  shall 
it  be!  In  an  hour?" 

"So  that's  your  last  word  ?  Then  here's  mine — cowards ! 
cowards  all  three!  In  an  hour?  No;  now — now:  give 
me  a  drink  of  wine  and  end  it." 

Lippo  laughed.  "You  begin  to  feel  the  teeth,  do  you? 
You  shall  have  your  wine.  And  listen — promise  you  will 
play  no  tricks  and  I  shall  bid  Giro  stand  from  your  back." 

"No  tricks?" 

"Yes — that  you  will  neither  try  to  escape  nor  force  a 
quarrel — oh,  you  are  not  such  a  fool  but  you  understand." 

"And  if  I  say  no?" 


—AND  HOW  HE  USED  IT  241 

"The  rope  is  beside  you,"  answered  Lippo  laconically. 

For  a  moment  Hawk,  his  passion  ebbed  from  him,  stood 
silent.  To  agree  robbed  him  of  his  hope  of  snatching 
some  chance  weapon  and  getting  home  at  least  one  stroke 
before  he  died:  but  if  he  refused  what  became  of  that 
hope,  bound  as  he  would  be,  hand  and  foot?  What,  too, 
of  his  muscles,  cramped  by  the  cords  and  stiffened  by  the 
cramping?  Giro  would  surely  see  to  that! 

"Better  not  trust  him,"  advised  Giro,  who,  his  mind 
upon  his  dogs,  had  the  same  thought  Knots,  cunningly 
tietl,  would  rob  this  accursed  Englishman  of  half  his 
strength. 

"I  promise,"  said  'Tonio  curtly,  and,  at  a  nod  from 
Lippo  Giro,  grumbling  under  his  breath,  sheathed  his 
sword.  "If  I  win  through,  Lippo,  I  go  free?" 

"Give  us  the  honour  of  a  brief  visit  first,"  said  Lippo. 
"After,  let  us  say,  three  days,  you  can  again  eat  bread  at 
the  same  table  as  Signor  Carlo — as  his  guest!  Giro,  a 
jug  of  wine  and  some  bread  and  meat  That,  Signor 
Hawk,  is  the  difference  between  men  and  dogs:  that  they 
may  fight  the  better  we  feed  the  one  and  starve  the  other. 
If  you  are  wise  you  will  bide  here  until  all  is  ready." 

The  advice  was  good,  nor  was  'Tonio  sorry  to  be  left 
alone.  The  very  fulness  of  the  day,  culminating  in  this 
last  storm  of  passion,  had  forced  a  sapping  of  strength. 
Very  grimly  he  was  determined  that  however  great  a 
mockery  this  fighting  chance  might  prove  to  be  in  the 
issue,  he  would  use  it  to  the  utmost,  not  simply  facing  the 
odds  as  a  man  should  face  odds,  but  that  coolly,  warily, 
forcefully,  he  would  pit  wit  and  his  every  ounce  of 
strength  against  Giro's  howling  brutes.  Therefore  he 
rested,  chafing  his  limbs  the  while,  and  waa  ready  with 
appetite  for  his  meat  and  drink  when  presently  it  came. 

It  was  one  of  the  city-bred  rogues  who  brought  the  food, 
a  shifty-eyed  lad  who,  it  was  soon  clear,  had  no  love  for 


242  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

Giro  or  Giro's  dogs.  Setting  down  the  wine  and  the 
platter  of  bread  and  meat  on  the  table,  he  made  a  great 
show  of  shifting  them  here  and  there,  whispering  under 
cover  of  the  busy  clatter. 

"The  dogs,  is  it?  Damn  the  brutes,  and  their  master, 
too!  Here's  your  best  chance:  I've  fought  dogs  for  a 
crust  and  I  know."  Swiftly  he  glanced  at  the  open  door 
and  as  swiftly  back.  "Don't  try  choking.  The  fur  is  too 
thick  for  your  clutch:  besides,  you  have  only  two  hands 
and  the  rest  would  be  at  your  throat.  No,  smash  the  jaw, 
so !"  with  his  clenched  fist  he  struck  savagely  sideways, 
again  glancing  at  the  door.  "Or,  if  you  get  the  chance, 
a  grip  of  the  leg  and  a  jerk — like  this!"  Now  it  was  a 
sharp  heave  of  the  fist,  a  heave  upward  and  with  a  twist. 
"At  times  the  bone  snaps:  you  understand?"  and  with  a 
nod  he  went. 

No,  'Tonio  did  not  quite  understand,  but  the  goodwill 
warmed  his  heart  as  the  goodwill  of  our  fellows  always 
must.  And  the  whisper  was  timely :  it  turned  his  thoughts 
where  it  was  wise  they  should  be  turned — to  some  plan  of 
action,  so  far  as  plan  was  possible.  Eating  slowly  he  set 
himself  in  imagination  with  his  back  to  the  wall  and 
Giro's  snarling  brutes  stalking  him:  thus  and  thus  would 
they  come,  then  thus  and  thus  must  he  meet  them ;  and  so 
two  good  things  were  gained — confidence  grew,  and  the 
unknown,  faced  in  anticipation,  lost  half  its  terrors.  When 
Lippo  called  to  him  from  the  door  he  was  ready. 

Along  one  side  of  the  camp  were  ranged  the  wooden 
huts  used  for  stabling  the  horses  through  the  winter:  of 
these,  some  were  enclosed,  some  mere  sheds  open  at  the 
front.  To  one  of  the  latter  Lippo  led  the  way.  It  was 
a  hollow  square  of  some  fifteen  feet  in  breadth  and  depth; 
backed  with  rough  planking,  its  sides  were  formed  by  the 
partitions  which  divided  it  from  adjoining  structures. 
The  floor  was  of  dry  earth,  hollowed  at  places  by  the 


—AND  HOW  HE  USED  IT  243 

stamping  of  hoofs  but  offering  a  sufficiently  sure  foothold : 
of  manger  or  hayrack  there  was  no  sign.  From  outer 
corner  to  outer  corner,  that  is  to  say  across  the  mouth  of 
the  shed,  a  straight  line  had  been  deeply  scored  in  the 
worn  grass,  while  from  the  same  points  a  curve,  ten  feet 
deep  at  its  widest,  swept  out  into  the  camp,  marking 
rudely  off  a  space  like  a  bent  bow.  Here  Faldora  waited. 

Outside  this  curved  line  Lippo's  lambs  were  ranged, 
three  and  four  deep,  some  eagerly  questioning,  others  as 
eagerly  answering  as  they  pointed  to  the  hollow  of  the 
empty  shed;  there  were  exclamations,  sharp  cries,  much 
laughter,  and  upon  the  faces  of  all  an  alert  interest,  pleas- 
antly quickened  by  expectation.  Without  doubt  their  fore- 
fathers had  worn  just  such  an  expression  as  they  crowded 
the  rising  tiers  of  the  circus,  waiting  the  coming  of  the 
gladiators.  As  the  lines  divided  to  let  them  pass  through 
'Tonio  heard  wagering :  the  odds  laid  were  on  Giro's  dogs. 
Beyond  the  curve  of  the  bow  the  camp  was  a  void,  but 
from  an  adjoining  shed  there  came  at  times  a  long-drawn 
whine,  at  times  a  yelp  or  a  howl. 

"There!"  said  Lippo  curtly.  Then  as  Tonio,  his  jaw 
hard  set  and  looking  neither  to  right  nor  left,  passed  on 
into  the  empty  shed  he  turned  to  the  crowded  lines  be- 
hind him,  one  hand  lifted  for  silence.  "Listen  all  of  you. 
You  know  what's  forward.  Let  no  man  cross  that  bent 
line.  Giro  will  bide  in  this  space  here  with  Signor  Carlo 
and  me :  he  may  speak  to  his  dogs,  but  if  he  sets  foot  in- 
side the  shed  there's  an  end— the  Englishman  win*. 
Hulloa!  Giro!  Come,  all  is  ready." 

A  second  time  the  packed  lines  parted  and  Giro  passed 
through,  his  dogs  at  his  heels :  save  for  little  complaining 
yelps  of  excitement  they  were  silent  Tonio,  a  yard  out 
from  the  back  of  the  shed,  that  he  might  have  free  arm- 
room,  drew  a  long  breath  and  set  his  teeth  the  harder; 
he  was  breathing  faster  than  common,  but  breathing 


244  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

deeply,  quietly.  Unconsciously,  but  as  if  by  agreement, 
Lippo  and  young  Faldora  drew  to  the  points  of  the  arc, 
leaving  the  centre  free  for  Giro  and  his  dogs. 

A  moment  he  stood  among  them,  his  eyes  on  Hawk, 
then  suddenly  he  stooped,  flung  out  both  arms  in  a  wide 
sweep  and  with  a  hissing  cry  urged  them  forward. 

"To  him,  Azzo !  to  him,  Fortuna !"  he  cried,  and  seizing 
the  nearest  flung  it  a  yard  into  the  shed.  Hawk,  his  fists 
clenched,  stooped  forward,  half  crouching  from  the  hips. 
Save  for  Giro's  urging,  now  guttural  now  sibilant,  there 
was  a  great  silence. 

And  the  brutes  understood.  Along  their  shaggy  backs 
their  rough  coats  stiffened,  bristling.  Drawing  their  hind 
legs  under  them  they  half  flattened,  crawling  forward  paw 
by  paw  with  bared  fangs  and  slaver  frothing  in  the  red  of 
their  jaws,  their  fierce  unwinking  eyes  staring  up  greedily 
at  Hawk's  face:  from  time  to  time  there  was  a  throaty 
whimper,  a  complaining  whine,  a  hungry  impatient  yelp, 
as  if  they  strained  against  the  leash  of  their  own  caution. 

"To  him,  Cecco !  to  him,  Speranza !  Seize  him,  Pluto ! 
seize  him!  seize  him!"  In  his  excitement  Giro's  voice 
hoarsened.  He  was  on  one  knee  now,  his  hands  waving  in 
little  quick  jerks  towards  the  stooping  Englishman.  From 
behind  there  was  no  sound,  scarcely  a  stir  as  they  strained 
on  one  another's  backs  to  see  the  better.  Then  came  a 
deep  "Ah-h-h"  as  Cecco  leaped. 

Whining,  his  fore  paws  outstretched,  his  muzzle  lifted, 
he  had  gathered  his  hind  legs  under  him,  clawing  at  the 
hard  earth  for  foothold :  now,  open  mouthed  and  snarling, 
he  flung  himself  upon  his  quarry  while  Giro,  beating  the 
air,  shouted,  "To  him,  Cecco!  to  him,  Azzo!  Pluto  1 
Pluto !"  But  Pluto  and  the  rest,  growling  now,  kept  their 
places,  and  Hawk,  watchful,  wary,  cool-headed  and  re- 
membering the  advice  of  him  who  had  fought  dogs  for 
crusts,  struck  a  savage  lateral  blow  with  his  clenched  fist. 


-AND  HOW  HE  USED  IT  245 

Well  timed,  delivered  with  all  his  power  of  arm,  it  caught 
the  open  lower 'jaw,  stretched  to  snap,  and  with  a  yelp 
Cecco  fell  sidelong,  rolled  over  twice  and  lay  howling. 
From  the  crowded  lines  a  roar  went  up;  Giro's  dogs  were 
not  loved. 

Perhaps  the  roar  goaded  them.  With  an  eager,  choking 
bark  Azzo  and  Speranza  flew  to  the  attack,  the  one  leap- 
ing upward,  the  other  racing  in  afoot.  Distracted,  Hawk's 
sidelong  blow  missed  its  mark,  striking  too  high,  though 
the  downward  drive  of  the  other  fist  stopped  Speranza's 
rush  for  the  moment.  But  only  for  the  moment,  and  in 
their  second  rush  Pluto  joined,  baying  loudly  as  he  closed 
upon  his  enemy:  behind,  Fortuna  lay  flattened,  ventre-a- 
terre,  growling  loudly  as  she  inched  forward. 

A  fighting  chance?  Hawk,  his  lungs  half  bursting  as  he 
fought  for  breath,  now  shouldering  off  a  leap,  now  strik- 
ing fiercely  at  jaw  or  ribs,  now  shifting  sidelong  from  his 
hips  to  evade  a  snap,  grit  his  teeth  in  despair.  Chance? 
What  chance  ?  Bitter  hearted,  he  understood  the  mockery 
of  Lippo's  laughter.  Tooth  and  claw  they  were  on  him 
and  well  he  knew  that  time  fought  on  their  side :  without  a 
doubt  their  brute  strength  would  outlast  his  powers  of 
endurance.  Then  from  behind  Fortuna  leaped  and  again 
a  roar  went  up,  but  this  time  the  roar  of  the  arena  hot  with 
lust  of  blood.  They  did  not  love  Giro's  dogs,  but  in  the 
frenzy  of  their  excitement  it  was  thumbs  down  for  the 
man. 

Crouching  lower  that  he  might  have  the  weight  of  his 
body  behind  the  blow  Hawk  fought  on,  but  not  now  with 
any  set  plan.  Where  ever  he  could  strike  in  that  welter 
of  bristling  fur  he  struck,  conscious  that  the  time  was 
short,  the  end  closing  in.  Breath  came  sobbing  from  hi* 
dry  throat,  came  in  quick  arhing  gasps;  the  odds  were 
over-great.  Once  Pluto's  teeth  in  the  stout  cloth  of  hU 
doublet  almost  pulled  him  down,  once  Sperania,  ecram- 


246  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

bling  upon  her  fellows'  backs,  missed  the  naked  throat  by 
a  tooth's  graze. 

"To  him!  to  him!"  shouted  Giro,  now  on  his  feet  and 
flailing  the  air  with  his  arms.  "Tear  him,  Pluto!  tear 
him,  Azzo!  tear  him!  tear  him!" 

From  where  he  lay  Cecco  howled  on,  his  jaw  broken. 
Then  in  the  confused  battling  as  they  worried  for  him, 
shifting  here  and  there  for  an  opening,  Hawk  gripped  a 
leg  and  rising  suddenly  stepped  back — it  was  Fortuna, 
the  smallest  of  the  pack.  Up  he  heaved  the  howling 
brute,  swinging  her  and  warding  off  the  rest  as  best  he 
could  with  knee  and  bent  arm,  then  struck  with  a  thudding 
crash  on  an  exposed  flank  and  with  the  double  howl  which 
followed  the  end  came.  Shouting  a  curse  Giro  rushed 
across  the  boundary,  tearing  at  his  sword-hilt  as  he  rushed. 
But  that  his  dogs  hindered  him  he  would  have  thrust 
Hawk  through  before  Lippo's  hand  on  his  collar  jerked 
him  back. 

"A  foul !  a  foul !  Hawk  wins !"  he  shouted.  "The  dogs ! 
clear  away  the  dogs !  Make  an  end — make  an  end !" 

Loosing  the  stunned  brute  from  his  grip  'Tonio  stag- 
gered back;  groping  for  the  shed  wall  and  panting  open- 
mouthed  for  breath.  His  clothes  hung  in  tatters  and 
through  the  rents  a  rawness  showed  where  tooth  or  nail 
had  left  its  mark.  The  world  wheeled  round  him  dizzily, 
but  through  the  whirl  there  was  an  exultant  consciousness 
of  victory,  a  consciousness,  too,  of  rough  hands  upon  his 
shoulders  in  kindliness,  and  through  the  roar  of  the  blood 
still  deafening  his  ears  a  sharp  yelping,  and  more  than 
one  howl  of  a  beast  in  its  last  agony.  In  very  literal  truth 
an  end  had  been  made:  Giro  was  no  longer  Giro  of  the 
dogs.  Lippo  touched  him. 

"You  are  not  so  very  much  the  worse,  only  a  scratch 
here  and  there,  deep  enough,  I  grant,  but  in  a  week  you 
will  be  your  own  man  again.  What  did  I  say?  A  fighting 


I 
—AND  HOW  HE  USED  IT  :M7 

chance!  and,  by  Paul!  you  fought!  You  are  safe  for  us 
now :  give  me  your  parole " 

"Xo  parole/'  said  'Tonio  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  for  his 
throat  was  parched.  Already  to  his  clearing  brain  had 
come  back  the  memory  of  Faldora's  danger,  which,  to  him, 
meant  danger  to  the  Master :  any  day  Fieravanti  might  re- 
turn from  Arzano. 

"Then  it  is  lock  and  key,"  answered  Lippo.  "But  in  a 
week  you  may  go  sup  with  Signer  Carlo — if  he  invites 
you!" 


THE  DAT  BEFORE  THE  NIGHT 

TBIBALDA,  as  might  be  expected,  was  the  soldier  through 
and  through.  With  nothing  of  the  sentimental  in  him, 
he  promptly  vetoed  any  immediate  attempt  to  rescue 
'Tonio. 

"We  are  too  weak,  signer/'  he  said  decisively,  when 
Piero's  tale  had  been  retold.  "As  you  know,  there  are  some 
we  cannot  trust.  Now,  if  we  attack  Lippo  and  leave  these 
behind  we  must  leave  still  more  to  hold  them  safe — which 
is  impossible;  we  cannot  spare  the  men:  then,  if  we  take 
them  with  us  they  will  turn  traitor  the  first  chance 

"As  they  will  here,  if  the  Casa  is  attacked/'  said  'Sandro. 
But  Tribalda  shook  his  head. 

"It  is  not  the  same.  Here  they  are  packed  among  loyal 
men  and  at  the  first  doubtful  move  the  man  next  behind 
runs  them  through;  but  out  there  in  the  open  and  on 

horseback "    Again  he  shook  his  head.    And,  indeed, 

there  was  no  need  to  finish.  The  difference  was  plain. 
Out  in  the  open,  treason  could  betray  at  its  leisure.  "II- 
lustrissimo,  here  is  the  truth — we  need  another  score  or 
more  men;  Lippo  is  recruiting,  I  heard  as  much  to-day." 

"Forli  I"  said  Faldora.  "Tribalda,  you  must  go  to  Forli 
and  at  once.  Ride  hard  and — let  me  see,  a  day  and  a  day 
and  aiday;  yes,  ride  hard  and  in  three  days,  four  at  the 
most,  you  will  be  here  again.  Then  a  day  to  rest  and— 
urn,  yes  five  days  hence — five  days,  and  by  God's  mercy 
there  will  be  an  end  to — to — Signer  Lippo!"  Always  he 
boggled  over  the  Lippo. 

248 


THE  DAY  BEFORE  THE  NIGHT       249 

"Five  days?"  said  Lucia,  her  voice  pitiful.  "Poor 
'Tonio!  Where  will  he  be  in  five  days?" 

"God  be  good  to  him,"  said  Tribalda  very  gravely,  "but, 
signorina,  we  can  do  no  better.  Am  I  even  certain  of 
my  men  in  the  time?" 

Silence  chilled  them.  All  knew  that  there  in  FaMora 
it  was  easy  to  say  three  days,  four  days  at  the  most,  but 
not  so  easy  to  force  completion  within  the  limit  down  at 
Forli.  Tribalda  might  even  fail  utterly.  Ordelaffi  would 
know  of  the  recruiting  and  might  shut  the  gates  against 
their  going;  he  would  be  within  his  right?.  Then,  a  faint 
colour  showing  where  not  much  colour  had  shown  of  late, 
Lucia  spoke  again. 

"Is  it  true  that  in  Forli  Ser  Marco  is — is — greatly  be- 
loved?" 

"Signorina,  they  would  die  for  him,"  said  'Sandro  ear- 
nestly. Which,  in  a  way,  was  true,  but  at  the  moment  he 
was  judging  others  by  himself. 

"Then  if  his  life  were  in  danger,  and  Count  Girolamo 
refused  aid " 

"You  have  hit  it,  my  girl!"  Out  of  his  new-bora 
vigour,  almost  youth,  Faldora  spoke  briskly.  "Tribalda, 
take  this  good  fellow  with  you,  go  straight  to  Ordelaffi 
and  tell  him  that  Forli's  maker  of  saints— oh,  you  will 
know  what  manner  of  tale  to  spin.  'Sandro  here  will  add 
his  word  if  needful.  But  hint  the  love  of  the  common 
folk  and  what  might  follow  if  harm  were  to  befall— you 
understand  ?" 

"But,  Illustrissimo,"  protested  'Sandro,  "if  there  truly 
is  danger  to  the  Master  I  must  be  here— 

"'Sandro,"  said  Lucia,  the  colour  deepening  a  ton< 
two,  "he  would  have  you  go,  I  am  sure,  V 
have  you  go,"  and  'Sandro,  remembering  the  injund 
laid  so  strongly  upon  him  knew  she  was  right, 
could  he  watch  over  the  Madonna  than  by  securing  help 


250  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

from  Forli?  Her  danger  was  even  greater  than  the 
Master's;  besides,  Fieravanti  was  in  Arzano.  He  turned 
to  Tribalda. 

"I  am  ready,  signer,"  he  said  briefly. 

But  when  Tribalda  would  have  gone  to  order  the  horses 
Faldora  checked  him. 

"Not  so  fast!  If  you  and  he  go  thundering  down  the 
Castel-Cavo  road  in  broad  day  Lippo  will  know  it  within 
an  hour.  Wait  till  it  is  dark  and  the  folk  all  abed. 
Meanwhile,  close  the  gates  so  that  no  man  can  carry  tales 
to  the  village:  from  this  hour  Faldora  is  in  siege." 

So  it  was  settled.  Through  a  warm  grey  night  of  fine 
rain  and  low-hung  mists  Tribalda  and  the  scarpellino 
rode  upon  their  mission.  If  a  door  or  two  opened  as  they 
passed  through  the  village  at  a  footpace  no  man  could 
have  recognised  them.  For  aught  Brettinoro  knew  two  of 
Lippo's  men  were  busy  on  some  devil's  work,  and  whoso 
heard  the  fall  of  the  horse-shoes  thanked  God  when  the 
clank  died  in  the  distance :  the  terror  by  night  had  passed 
by! 

Because  of  the  late  sunset  high  amongst  the  hills,  Tri- 
balda's  departure  had  been  long  delayed.  The  night  was 
black  dark  as  they  passed  Margotti's  unhallowed  resting- 
place,  the  day  midway  between  dawn  and  noon  when 
horses  were  changed  at  Castel-Cavo  and  hard  upon  gate- 
shutting  when  Forli  was  entered.  Wasting  no  time  they 
rode  straight  to  the  Castello.  There  Tribalda  was  suf- 
ficiently well  known  to  be  granted  an  immediate  audience. 

"Alone?"  asked  Conti  curtly  as  he  noted  the  signs  of 
travel-haste. 

"No!"  Laying  his  plans  as  he  rode  Tribalda  had  de- 
cided against  secrecy.  To  force  Ordelaffi's  hand,  the 
more  who  knew  of  Fieravanti's  danger  the  better :  nor  was 
it  any  surprise  to  find  Amata  Capponi  amongst  the  five 
or  six  in  attendance. 


THE  DAY  BEFORE  THE  NIGHT       251 

Very  briefly  the  Captain  of  the  Guard  urged  Faldora's 
request  that  he  might  recruit  sufficient  men  to  secure  the 
Casa :  of  the  intended  attack  on  Lippo  he  said  not  a  word. 
A  pace  or  two  behind  him  'Sandro  itching  to  speak,  held 
his  peace. 

"Let  every  dog  guard  his  own  kennel,  I  have  no  men  to 
waste."  Ordelaffi  was  as  brief. 

'"There  is  worse  than  sack  and  murder.  Count  Ascanio 
has  a  grand-daughter." 

"Oh,  la !  la  I"  broke  in  Amata  Capponi.  "Let  them  dice 
for  her:  young  Faldora  is  certain  to  win." 

"Also,  Illustrissimo,"  Tribalda  kept  his  temper  and 
respect  admirably,  though  he  had  lost  both,  "there  is  a 
guest  to  share  the  danger — Marco  Fieravanti." 

"The  chiseller?"  Again  it  was  Amata  Capponi  who 
spoke,  but  this  time  with  a  shift  of  tone;  insolence  had 
given  place  to  vexed  spleen.  "Is  he  still  a-making  of 
saints?  Let  his  saints  keep  him;  my  lord  can  stir  no 
finger." 

"You  mistake,  Illustrissima.  We  do  not  ask  Count  Qiro- 
lamo  to  spare  soldiers — no!  But,  my  lord,  give  us  leave 
to  find  men  in  Forli — Forli  dearly  loves  Ser  Marco:  for 
Ser  Marco's  sake  Forli  will  rise  to  a  man.  Almost,  I 
think,  Forli  would  go  stark  mad  if  harm  befell  Ser  Marco, 
harm  which  Forli  might  have  prevented  had  help  been 
given " 

"Be  quiet!"     It  was  Amata  Capponi  whom  Ordelaffi 
put  down  with  a  strong  hand  as  she  pressed  forward,  pas- 
sion flaming  in  her  eyes.    "It  you  were  a  wife  you  coold 
not  be  more  curst!    Fieravanti?    Urn,  yes,  that  touches  us 
more  nearly."    He  paused,  questioning  Conti  with  a  look. 
Dared  they  leave  this  maker  of  saints  to  his  fate?    V 
it  bo  safe?    and  Conti  covertly  shook  his  head:  what  Tri- 
balda had  said  was  true,  Forli  might  go  mad. 
rionrly,"    repeated    Ordelaffi,   his   voice   growing  brisker, 


252  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

"much  more  nearly,  since  he  is  one  of  ourselves — our  every 
own.  Yes,  for  Marco  Fieravanti's  sake  I  consent.  Conti, 
let  it  be  known  that  for  Marco  Fieravanti's  sake  we  permit 
the  recruiting/'  and  'Sandro,  whose  face  had  gone  white 
when  Amata  Capponi's  had  flamed,  drew  a  sigh  of  relief 
and  still  held  his  peace.  Had  he  spoken  Amata  Capponi 
might  have  learned  some  truths,  but  it  is  to  be  doubted  if 
Tribalda's  mission  would  have  been  advanced:  'Sandro 
was  that  doubtful  diplomatist,  an  enthusiast  who  sees 
but  his  own  side  of  the  question. 

It  is  enough  to  add  that  next  day  Tribalda  secured  his 
men  and  could  have  had  five  times  the  number  for  the 
asking.  But  though  men  were  found  quickly  enough,  some 
hours  were  necessarily  cut  to  waste  procuring  horses  and 
equipment;  there  were,  too,  hindrances  at  the  last,  so  that 
it  was  hard  on  dusk  when  he  passed  the  gates  at  the  head 
of  his  troop.  Thenceforward  there  were  no  delays  except 
those  inseparable  from  travelling  rough  roads  in  the  dark. 

It  was  not  often  that  Ascanio  Faldora  changed  his  yea 
or  nay,  but  on  second  thoughts  he  decided  that  Lucia's 
promise  to  Piero  Buti  should  be  redeemed  by  a  housing 
at  the  Casa  rather  than  a  guard  in  the  vico.  The  later 
plan  had  two  advantages,  the  garrison  was  not  weakened, 
and  intercourse  with  the  village,  gossip  which  in  spite  of 
prohibition  might  have  said,  Tribalda  has  ridden  to  Forli 
to  hunt  men,  was  prevented.  Let  it  be  added  that  Piero's 
fears  were  without  foundation.  There  was  no  harrying 
of  the  empty  house.  If  Lippo  knew  of  the  warning  given 
by  the  lad  he  was  too  busy  preparing  to  hawk  the  heron 
to  heed  the  sparrow. 

And  signs  of  that  hawking  were  clear  on  the  second 
day  after  Tribalda's  departing  when  a  maid  of  the  Casa 
was  found  by  her  mistress  with  her  arms  on  the  flat  of  a 
table,  her  head  on  her  clenched  hands  and  she  sobbing 


THE  DAY  BEFORE  THE  NIGHT      253 

as  if  her  heart  were  broken— though  it  is  to  be  doubted 
whether  hearts  which  are  truly  broken  are  not  too  sorrow- 
ful for  the  relief  of  tears. 

Now,  there  had  been  a  time,  and  not  so  long  before, 
when  Lucia  Faldora  would  have  passed  the  tears  by  with 
hardly  a  second  thought  and  certainly  no  second  glance. 
But  there  is  this  quality  in  love,  it  expands  the  sympathies 
and  for  very  joy  of  its  own  happiness  must  needs  strive 
for  the  happiness  of  others,  else  it  is  not  true  love.  Stoop- 
ing over  the  girl  Lucia  laid  a  firm  hand  gently  on  the 
shaken  shoulders. 

"What  is  it,  child?    Has  Nello  been  unkind?" 

At  the  sound  of  the  voice  rather  than  at  the  touch  the 
girl  started  to  her  feet  and  stood  quaking:  though  the 
pretty,  soft  mouth  was  trembling  pitifully  there  was  such 
a  terror  behind  the  tears  in  the  eyes  that  self-reproach 
smote  her  mistress.  What?  Had  she  been  so  hard  in 
spirit,  so  little  a  woman,  that  her  very  nearness  was  a 
fear  to  those  who  served  her?  Truly  she  had  much  to 
learn  !  Not  easily  did  the  girl  force  control ;  then, 

"It  is  nothing,  Madonna,  nothing  at  all.  Nello?  Oh, 

no,  no,  Nello  is — is "  and  then  to  prove  that  nothing 

was  amiss  she  wept  bitterly  and  unashamed,  her  bands 
gripping  one  another  till  the  knuckles  showed  white 
through  the  red  of  the  coarsened  skin. 

"Tell  me,  Joana."  Never  had  Joana  heard  so  soft  a 
voice.  "We  women  do  not  cry  our  heart*  out  over  noth- 
ings. Tell  me:  what  am  I  but  a  woman  like  yourself? 
I  shall  understand,  be  sure  I  shall  understand.  And  it  U 
Nello,  is  it  not?*' 

Nello?  Every  one  in  the  Casa  knew  swaggering,  light- 
hearted  Nello— Nello  of  the  gay  laugh,  the  gay  reds  and 
blues,  the  ready  laugh  and  sunny  temper,  and  how  he  and 
pretty,  feather-headed  Joana  had  plighted  a  troth  over 


254  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

which  Father  Bernardo  shook  his  head.  That  Nello,  being 
Nello,  should  cause  tears  seemed  a  certainty ;  but  the  girl's 
answer  was  an  astonishment. 

"Nello  ?  Oh,  no !  no !  It  is  you,  Madonna — you !  For 
the  love  of  Mary "  She  checked  the  outburst  a  mo- 
ment, choking,  then  the  flood  of  words  was  loosed  again 
and  loosed  yet  more  strongly.  "He  will  be  angry,  but  I 
don't  care,  no,  I  don't  care.  Madonna,  do  not  sleep  in 
the  Casa  to-night — oh,  Dio  mio!  Dio  mw!  what  shall  I 
do !  what  shall  I  do !"  and  again  the  tears  flowed. 

"Not  sleep  in  the  Casa?  Why,  Joana?"  If  a  tremor, 
a  quiver  as  from  a  shiver  of  the  heart,  ran  through  her 
she  gave  no  sign.  "Oh,  but  it  is  no  use  to  shake  your 
head;  you  must  tell  me!  See,  now;  no  harm  will  come 
to  you  or  Nello :  for,  after  all,  it  is  Nello,  is  it  not  ?"  But 
the  girl,  her  face  hid  in  her  hands  as  she  rocked  back  and 
forwards,  only  shook  her  head  afresh.  Of  course  it  was 
Nello.  Had  it  not  been  Nello  there  would  have  been  no 
need  for  tears.  Lucia  Faldora's  voice  grew  firmer,  more 
insistent;  lives  to  the  score  were  in  the  balance.  "If  you 
will  not  tell  me,  then  Count  Ascanio " 

"Oh,  no !  no !  Madonna,  no !  no !  not  that ! — not  that ! 
He  would  hang  Nello,  I  know  he  would."  Terror  was 
again  rampant  in  her  eyes  as  she  looked  up,  the  tears  dry- 
ing for  very  fear.  "Madonna,  for  the  love  of  Christ  have 
mercy." 

"And  what  mercy  will  Lippo  have?  Yes,  Lippo,"  she 
repeated  with  a  firmness  that  was  almost  stern  as  the  girl 
shrank.  "See,  I  have  promised  that  no  harm  shall  come 
to  your  Nello,  though  if  my  lord  hung  him  for  his  trea- 
son it  would  be  his  deserts.  What?  He  eats  our  bread 
and  plays  spy  for  Lippo — Lippo,  who  burns  the  mother 
and  the  children,  little  small  children,  babes  almost! 
Joana,  is  that  your  womanhood  ?" 

"Madonna,  I  love  him,  God  only  knows  how  I  love  him/' 


THE  DAY  BEFORE  THE  NIGHT       255 

The  reproach  had  been  elliptical,  but  Joana  understood 
and  now  the  answer  softened  the  girl  who  also  loved  much. 
What  was  it  the  Florentine  had  said  ?  Love  that  reckons 
conditions  is  not  love?  And,  after  all,  what  was  Nello 
but  a  gay-hearted,  thoughtless  boy  as  feather-headed  as 
Joana  herself? 

"You  have  my  promise;  no  harm  will  come  to  your 
Nello/'  said  Lucia  more  gently.  "Answer  me  now,  is  this 
the  truth  ?  Lippo  will  attack  the  Casa  to-night  and  Nello 
has  warned  you  to  find  safety,  lest  in  the  darkness — But 
how  can  you?  The  doors  are  guarded:  no  one  may  quit 
the  Casa?" 

"He  will  be  at  the  small  postern,  Madonna,  and  let  us 
through " 

"Us?  Do  you  think  I  would  save  myself  and  leave  the 
rest  to  Lippo?" 

"But,  Madonna,"  Joana  hesitated  an  instant,  shivering, 
"it  is  not  just  what  may  happen  by  accident  in  the 
dark " 

"No!"  said  Lucia  bitterly,  "it  is  not  accidents  we 
dread,  we  women,  not  where  there  are  Lippos!  God  be 
praised,  I  am  not  afraid  to  die.  But  is  what  I  have  said 
truth?" 

"Yes,  Madonna." 

"Well— dry  your  tears :  you  shall  go,  both  you  and  your 
Nello." 

She  paused  in  deep  thought.  To  promise  safety  to  the 
girl's  lover  was  one  thing,  to  win  her  grandfather's  con- 
sent another!  Consent?  He  would  never  consent  1  Her 
pledge  to  Piero  had  been  honoured,  but  this  touched  the 
safety  of  the  Casa  and  he  would  tell  her  bluntly  that  she 
had  neither  the  right  nor  the  power  to  give  such  promiaea. 
\Yithout  doubt  feather-headed  Nello  would  hang,  and  mot 
likely  hanp  in  front  of  the  very  postern  he  would 
betrayed :  that  would  be  a  warning  quite  in  keeping  with 


256  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

Ascanio  Faldora's  grim  temper.  What  then?  Her  word 
was  pledged  and  she,  too,  was  a  Faldora !  She  saw  but  one 
way.  The  two  must  be  let  slip  through  the  postern  which 
could  then  be  locked  and  barred  behind  them:  afterwards 
she  would  tell  her  grandfather. 

"At  what  hour  is  Nello  on  guard?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment;  then  "In  an  hour,  Madonna: 
but  it  is  at  night  he  will  contrive " 

"Come  to  me  an  hour  from  now.  How  many  more 
traitors  are  there?" 

"Madonna,  I  know  nothing — nothing  at  all;"  the  an- 
swer came  in  a  whimper. 

"Dry  your  eyes:  you  shall  go  scatheless,  you  and  your 
Nello :  unless,  that  is,  you  so  play  the  fool  within  the  next 
hour  that  you  hang  him.  Come  to  me  as  I  have  bidden 
you." 

But,  left  to  herself,  she  was  in  two  minds  whether,  after 
all,  she  ought  not  to  go  straight  with  her  news  to  Count 
Ascanio.  Her  own  question,  How  many  more  traitors  are 
there?  troubled  her.  She  had  expected  no  other  answer, 
had,  indeed,  flung  the  question  half  in  contempt;  but 
doubtless  Nello  knew,  and  just  as  doubtless  Count  As- 
canio had  stern  means  of  extracting  answers  from  unwill- 
ing tongues.  There  were  chambers  hidden  away  out  of 
sight  in  the  depths  of  Casa  Faldora  whose  very  memory 
was  a  terror !  Never  had  their  grim  contents  been  used 
in  her  day,  but  most  certainly  Count  Ascanio  would  re- 
member their  use  and  Nello's  unwilling  tongue  would 
speak.  And  to  know  who  was  traitor  might  be  vital — 
vital.  Yet,  dared  she?  What  was  Nello  but  a  boy?  And, 
after  all,  it  was  through  Joana's  love  she  had  gleaned  even 
so  much  of  the  truth.  Could  she,  then,  a  fellow-woman 
who  loved,  could  she  send  Nello  to  such  a  doom?  Would 
Marco  wish  it?  All  unconsciously  her  eyes  grew  tender — 
wistful :  thank  God,  Marco  was  safe.  Hardly  knowing,  she 


THE  DAY  BEFORE  THE  NIGHT       257 

broke  off  her  troubled  train  of  thought  and  stood  a  mo- 
ment with  head  bowed  upon  her  clasped  hands — Thank 
God,  Marco  Fieravanti  was  safe!  Then,  perhaps  it  was 
the  sudden  accession  of  tenderness,  perhaps  the  simple 
answer  to  the  question  she  had  put  to  herself,  hut  withoot 
an  instant's  hesitation  decision  came :  Nello  must  go  free ! 


CHAPTEE  XXVI 

TWILIGHT 

AN  hour  later  was  not  a  usual  time  for  the  mistress  of 
the  Casa  to  be  in  the  quarter  whence  opened  the  small  door 
whose  hinges  bore  Giro's  cunning  handiwork.  But  through 
those  days  of  siege  many  things  were  unusual,  and  so  her 
unexpected  appearance  excited  no  comment,  any  more 
than  that  Joana,  who  attended  her,  should  be  white-faced 
and  showing  plain  signs  of  tears.  If  any  were  curious 
they  found  a  solution  for  both  Lucia  Faldora's  presence 
and  the  girl's  swollen  eyelids  when  the  two  turned  into  the 
passage  at  whose  end  Nello  stood  on  guard — the  young 
fools  had  fallen  out,  and  the  mistress  was  there  to  patch 
the  quarrel:  a  solution  which  played  into  Lucia's  hands, 
since  not  even  curiosity  would  be  bold  enough  to  invite 
rebuke  by  spying.  It  has  been  said  that  Lucia  Faldora 
could,  at  times,  use  her  tongue  caustically. 

From  the  door,  where  he  stood  leaning  on  his  pike- 
handle,  Nello  viewed  the  approach  with  a  vague  uneasiness 
which  was  not  long  left  in  doubt.  Lucia,  sternly  con- 
temptuous, went  to  her  point  with  curt  brevity  and  ruth- 
less clearness. 

"Go,  the  two  of  you.  For  you,  Nello,  Faldora  is  well 
rid  of  you,  but  never  forget  you  owe  her  a  life.  If  you 
had  your  due  you  would  hang,  and  you  know  it." 

"Signorina,  I — I "  Surprised,  as  it  were,  flank 

and  rear,  Nello  floundered,  stammering. 

"Lippo's  spy!"  The  sharp  edge  of  the  contempt  cut 

258 


TWILIGHT  259 

so  like  a  knife  that  the  girl  at  her  side  gasped.    "Yon 
were,  to  open  the  door  for  him  to-night n 

"Xo,  signorina,  no " 

But  though  the  denial  was  true,  since  Lippo  had  no 
need  of  an  open  door,  she  silenced  him  for  a  liar. 

"We  know !  You  who  ate  our  bread  would  give  as  to 
Lippo  dead  or  living — give  us  in  our  sleep !  You  coward ! 
You  vileness  worse  than  coward !  What  ?  Have  you  for- 
gotten Margotti?  Not  you,  or  you  would  not  be  so  eager 
to  see  Joana  safe!  Safe  from  what?  Oh,  that  I  had 
words  to  show  you  what  you  are!  You  would  give  us  up 
to  Lippo — Lippo  who  burnt  the  little  children,  to  Giro 
of  the  dogs  who  laughed  to  see  them  bum:  you  would 
give  us  to  that — that!  Aye,  and  to  worse,  or  why  must 
Joana  go  shivering  into  the  night?"  Then,  as  is  the  way 
of  women,  good  women,  suddenly  she  softened  and  the 
tears  which  had  never  smarted  her  eyes  in  the  revelation 
of  the  danger  an  hour  before  broke  raining  down  her 
cheeks.  "Oh,  Nello,  Nello,  how  could  you?  how  could 
you?  We  trusted  you  because  we  thought  you  loved  us 
and  you  have  the  heart  of  a  stone." 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  dumb  silence  broken  only  by 
a  dual  sobbing:  Joana,  at  her  mistress'  side,  was  weeping 
open-mouthed  and  unashamed.  Then  a  spasm  shook 
Nello.  His  face  had  gone  first  red  then  ashen,  now  all  the 
fresh  comeliness  of  his  debonair  youth  was  wiped  from  it 
as  one  wipes  breath  from  glass. 

"Signorina !"  he  cried,  "I  never  thought,  as  God  lires  I 
never  thought.  Giro  came  and  talked  and  I  listened  like 
a    fool,    but    I    never    thought    of— of— the    afterwards. 
Lippo  ?    Damn  Lippo !    Madonna,  I'm  on  your  side,  and  i 
they  come " 

"If?"  said  Lucia  catching  at  the  word  as  he  checked, 
swallowing,  "is  there  an  if  at  all?" 

"No,  no  if— they'll  come.    But  there's  one  leas  on  their 


260  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

side  and  maybe  there  will  be  others  before  night.  Trust 
me;  Madonna,  for  God's  sake  trust  me." 

There  was  no  great  light  in  the  passage,  only  what  came 
through  a  loophole  high  up  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall, 
but  what  she  saw  satisfied  Lucia:  youth  which  does  not 
think  of  the  afterwards  is  a  bad  liar. 

"I  trust  you.  Remember,  it  is  Joana's  life — all  our 
lives;  Lippo  has  no  pity,"  she  said  laconically  and  turned 
to  the  girl.  "There,  dry  your  eyes,  child.  You  may  stay 
here,  and  if  any  blames  you  say  I  gave  you  leave.  God 
knows,  there  may  be  little  of  the  world  left  to  both  of 
you." 

But  now,  quitting  them,  she  was  in  the  throes  of  a 
fresh  doubt.  That  there  were  Lippo's  men  mixed  through 
the  garrison  she  knew;  if  she  brought  a  plain  tale  to 
Count  Ascanio  he  would,  being  Count  Ascanio,  seize  on 
Nello  and  from  him  force  the  names.  Was  that  wise? 
Knowing  they  had  no  mercy  to  expect  they  would  cer- 
tainly resist  arrest,  and  righting  for  their  lives  would  take 
life.  Could  such  loss  be  borne  with  the  garrison  already 
dangerously  weak  ?  And  would  the  evil  end  there  ?  Would 
not  suspicion,  every  man  doubting  his  neighbour's  loyalty, 
spread  like  a  rot  to  the  great  weakening  of  the  defence? 
Then  she  remembered  that  Tribalda  had  less  fear  of  trea- 
son at  close  quarters  than  in  the  open  and  that  decided 
her :  Count  Ascanio  must  be  warned  of  the  coming  attack 
but  she  would  name  no  names. 

She  found  him  in  the  great  hall  with  old  Ricci,  the  ser- 
geant of  the  guard  who  was  in  command  during  Tribalda's 
absence.  Bidding  him  remain,  she  went  as  briefly  to  her 
point  as  when  she  flung  Nello's  treachery  in  his  face. 

"Tribalda  will  be  too  late:  Lippo  forestalls  us  and 
comes  to-night." 

"Comes?  Lippo  comes?  Speak  plainer:  what  do  you 
mean?" 


TWILIGHT  281 

"Tribalda  told  us  Lippo  has  been  gathering  men.  He 
must  have  found  all  he  needs  since  I  know  for  certain  that 
he  will  attack  the  Casa  to-night." 

"You  know?  From  whom?"  The  fine  capillaries  in 
the  weather-bitten  lean  cheeks  grew  tinged. 

"Do  not  ask,"  she  pleaded,  answering  the  look  rather 
than  the  words.  "Is  it  not  enough  that  we  are  warned  in 
time?" 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  if  his  old  intolerance  of  op- 
position would  have  swept  aside  her  plea  in  an  outburst 
of  passion:  but  she  met  his  gathering  wrath  without  flinch- 
ing, and  yet  with  such  an  appeal  that  he  choked  back  his 
anger. 

"What's  this?  Another  pledge?  By  Holy  Paul,  girl, 
you  take  too  much  upon  you,  you  and  your  pledges!  But 
I  know  you — if  you  won't  speak  you  won't!  To-night? 
When?" 

"Nothing  is  known — just  to-night" 

"Let  him  come !  He  will  not  be  the  first  who  has  broken 
his  knuckles  on  the  old  walls !  Tribalda  will  be  in  time 
yet!" 

"You  remember?    He  warned  us  Lippo  had  spies " 

"Worthy  friends  of  Signer  Roverella !"  Who  can  repro- 
duce the  bitterness  of  the  scorn?  "Leave  all  that  to  me 
Ricci  knows  whom  to  suspect.  Tell  her,  B; 

"It  is  a  guess,  signorina."    But  it  struck  Lucia  with  a 
chill  that  from  the  list  of  six  or  eight  which  followed 
X,  llo's  name  was  absent.    If  Nello  was  unsuspected,  then 
how  many  more  were  on  Lippo's  side?    But  she  urged 
doubts.    Such  an  urging  would  have  been  met,  and 
met,  with  the  retort,  "Since  you  know  so  much  gw  u»  the 
names  yourself !" 

To  all  outward  appearances  that  day  differed 
from  the  one  which  had  gone  before ;  always  the  gal 
closed,  the  door  fast  shut  and  guarded,  hot  Fald 


262  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

decided,  and  wisely,  that  until  nightfall  there  should  be 
no  open  preparation  to  meet  the  attack.  There  was,  in 
truth,  little  to  be  done  and  the  shorter  notice  the  less 
time  there  would  be  to  fret  the  nerve  in  waiting.  The  most 
notable  difference,  yet  one  which  escaped  unread,  was 
Count  Ascanio's  buoyance  of  spirit.  Never  since  the  day 
when,  in  Fieravanti's  workshop,  he  had  ordered  Signor 
Eoverella's  horse  to  be  made  ready  for  him  had  he  been 
gay;  so  cheerful  was  he  that  were  it  not  for  his  great  age 
and  dignity  one  could  have  imagined  him  whistling  or 
singing  to  himself,  even  as  he  went  up  or  down  those 
empty  stairs  where  the  echo  of  children's  small  feet  seemed 
more  remote  than  ever. 

And  Lucia  Faldora?  Serene  of  face,  no  paler  than  of 
late,  she  went  about  her  accustomed  duties  seeming  to  do 
neither  more  nor  less.  That  she  should  spend  an  hour 
nursing  the  sleeping  Marietta  to  her  bosom  was  natural, 
the  child  being  fretful  in  her  strange  surroundings.  And 
in  bringing  peace  to  others  the  girl  won  peace  to  herself, 
as  is  the  law  of  the  highest  that  is  in  us,  soothing  the 
child  and  calming  her  own  half  unconscious  rebellion  that 
she  might  never  again  look  on  Marco  Fieravanti's  face,  that 
the  end  might  come — always  she  recognised  that  Lippo's 
knuckles  might  beat  down  the  ancient  walls  and  the  end 
come — and  her  love  pass  into  the  shadows  unrevealed.  Is 
there  a  greater  tragedy  in  life  than  that  the  greatest  thing 
in  the  world  should  die  without  expression? 

Strange,  the  flat  contradictions  which  can  hold  their 
place  in  the  heart  at  the  one  moment.  Rocking  the  sleep- 
ing child  softly  she  thanked  God  Marco  Fieravanti  was 
safe  out  of  Faldora,  and  in  the  same  breath  hungered 
with  an  aching,  wistful  crave  for  a  last  sight  of  his  face. 
Without  a  doubt  it  was  the  same  contradiction  which,  as 
she  crossed  the  hall  two  hours  before  sunset,  made  her 
pause,  shivering,  even  while  her  heart  exulted  to  hear 


TWILIGHT 

Fieravanti's  voice  at  the  gate  asking  Ricci  if  all  were  well. 

"Well  and  ill,"  answered  Ricci.  "But  you  will  find 
fewer  than  when  you  left" 

"Count  Ascanio?  Madonna  Lucia?"  Listening,  she 
caught  the  shock  of  fear,  the  hint  of  desolation,  in  the  roioe 
and  smiled,  her  eyes  growing  tender. 

"Here  and  well.  But  come  within,  signer.  It's  a  long 
story  and  my  lord  had  best  tell  it  himself.  Ill  say  this, 
never  was  a  man  more  welcome." 

Turning,  Lucia  went  slowly  up  the  great  stairway.  Not 
at  that  moment  could  she  meet  him.  Never  more  wel- 
come? With  the  thrill  of  exultation  tingling  through  her, 
warming  her  as  wine  warms  starvation,  she  told  herself 
that  it  was  true :  let  the  end  he  what  it  might,  thank  God 
she  would  see  his  face  once  again.  Nor  was  that  all. 
There  was  comfort  in  the  thought  that  let  the  night  hold 
for  them  what  it  might  they  would  face  it  together. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Ascanio  Faldora  that  with  fire 
and  sack  knocking  at  his  doors  he  abated  no  jot  of  his 
accustomed  ceremony.  As  always,  old  Giuseppe's  wand 
tapped  its  way  along  the  worn  flags,  and  the  candles  be- 
fore and  behind  guttered  blue  in  the  summer  twilight  of 
the  ill-lit  corridors  as  Fieravanti,  promoted  to  his  hosfs 
elbow,  discoursed  of  the  progress  in  the  Arzano  defence*. 
There  was  the  familiar  pause  at  the  supper-room  door,  the 
passing  in  between  the  lights  and  from  above  and  below 
the  salt  the  old  grave  salutations.  Then  while  all  were 
on  their  feet  for  Father  Bernardo's  grace  Lucia  Faldora 
slipped  by  way  of  a  side-door  quietly  to  her  place  at  Count 
Ascanio's  right  hand.  Her  colour  was  a  little  wanner 
than  through  these  last  days,  and  if  her  smile  of  welcome 
had  an  unexpected  quality  Fieravanti  found  an  «..-;• 
planation— she  who  was  good  to  the  poor  would  surely 
understand  his  anxiety  over  Anthony  Hawk? 

Truly  that  was  a  strange  supper  party.    Upon  fire  at 


264  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

least — Father  Bernardo,  as  well  as  the  maker  of  saints, 
had  been  taken  into  confidence — Ricci  and  Nello  supped 
in  the  guard-room — lay  the  shadow  of  a  terrible  uncer- 
tainty, yet  four  ate  and  drank  tranquilly  and  with  no  ap- 
parent thought  beyond  the  passing  of  the  hour :  only  Joana, 
below  the  salt,  shivered  at  times.  At  the  head  of  the  table 
old  Faldora  was  courteously  interested  in  his  guest's  inter- 
ests in  Arzano :  of  'Tonio  no  word  was  said,  nor  were  Tri- 
balda  or  'Sandro  mentioned.  To  a  careless  onlooker  nothing 
was  changed,  nothing  differed  from  any  supper  hour  of  the 
past  year,  and  yet  when,  at  its  close,  Count  Ascanio  rose 
to  his  feet  as  he  had  risen  once  before,  a  sigh  ran  the 
length  of  the  table  as  if  held  breath  had  suddenly  been 
released.  And,  as  before,  the  double  line  of  faces  were 
bent  forward,  faces  paler  than  when  the  health  of  Faldoras 
yet  to  be  was  drunk,  faces  with  the  eyes  strained  and  the 
mouths  of  the  women  crushed  to  a  thin  line:  only  Joana 
kept  her  place,  sitting  back  shivering  on  her  settle. 

"What  I  have  to  say  is  no  news  to  some  of  you.  For 
them  I  shall  have  a  word  presently,  but  listen  all,  Lippo 
may  be  fool  enough  to  assault  the  Casa  to-night.  Let  him, 
say  I !  You  women  will  keep  to  your  own  quarters,  with 
Father  Luca  for  ghostly  comfort  lest  you  grow  afraid.  You 
men,  all  of  you,  assemble  in  the  great  hall  at  the  stroke  of 
nine ;  there  Ricci  will  give  you  your  orders.  If  they  break 
through — they  will  not — but  if  they  do  there  can  be  no 
quarter:  it  is  your  life  or  theirs." 

He  paused,  looking  up  and  down  the  table  in  silence,  his 
glance,  hard  and  fiercely  stern,  pausing  a  second's  space 
now  on  this  face  now  on  that.  When  he  spoke  again  his 
voice,  always  curt,  always  cold,  since  curtness  and  cold- 
ness made  for  the  bracing  of  raw  nerves,  had  grown  yet 
curter,  colder,  more  incisively  significant. 

"There  can  be  no  quarter,"  he  repeated  with  a  rising 
emphasis.  "Remember  that,  you  who  are  Lippo's  men. 


TWILIGHT  265 

To  you  I  say  this  last  word— even  now  it  is  not  too  late. 
Keep  faith  to  your  bread  and  salt  and  all's  well;  Faldora 
never  forgets :  but  waver  an  instant,  let  treachery  so  much 

as  bat  an  eyelid,  and "    Again  he  paused,  this  time 

shaking  an  open  hand  above  his  head  as  he  stooped  for- 
ward. "So  help  me  God !"  he  ended,  nor  were  more  words 
needed.  "Father,  a  grace." 

If  the  priest's  voice,  deeper  than  common,  more  solemn 
than  common,  shook  over  the  familiar  words  who  can 
wonder?  How  many  who  gave  thanks  for  meat  would 
never  eat  again  at  that  table?  Faldora's  obstinate  faith 
in  his  ancient  walls  might  say  "they  will  not  break 
through,"  but  in  his  heavy  heart  Father  Bernardo  could 
find  no  such  comfortable  assurance. 

In  the  silence  which  followed  the  deep  "Amen"  Count 
Ascanio  turned  briskly  to  Lucia,  a  hand  on  her  arm. 

"Go  with  them,"  and  he  nodded  down  the  table  at  the 
women,  now  white  faced  and  scared  of  they  knew  not 
what.  "Some  of  them  will  need  comfort,  poor  souls; 
your  comfort,  a  woman's  comfort  rather  than  a  priesfs. 
Tell  them  there  is  nothing  to  fear." 

"But  I  cannot.  I  do  fear— fear  greatly.  Oh,  not  for 
myself,  but  that  they  will  find  a  way  in.  Giro  knows  the 
Casa  from  end  to  end  as  you  do." 

"Giro?  Giro  of  the  dogs?  Signer  Roverella's  friend? 
Be  easy.  Eicci  and  I  will  make  the  rounds  presently  and 
see  that  all  is  well.  No  rat  on  four  legs  or  two  will  find 
a  hole.  Come,  Ser  Marco,  let  us  descend  to  the  hall." 

"But  surely,"  said  Fieravanti,  touching  lightly  the 
sleeve  of  purple  silk  with  its  elaborate  lace  frilling  at  the 
wrists,  "you  will  discard  this  for  more  serviceable  stuff? 

"What?  Put  on  chain  mail  when  Signor  Roverella  hon- 
ours Faldora  with  a  visit?  No,  as  I  am,  as  I  am.  Or 
stay,  there  is  one  change  I  shall  make — a  sword  blade  §ix 
inches  longer  than  this  courtesy  toy  will  not  come  amiiiP 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

NIGHT 

BECAUSE  of  her  ministrations  in  the  women's  wing, 
ministrations  more  sorely  needed  than  even  Faldora's 
shrewd  experience  had  imagined,  Lucia  was  not  present 
at  the  muster  in  the  great  hall  when  nine  struck.  It  was 
a  mixed  gathering  and  Count  Ascanio,  on  the  third  step 
of  the  wide  stairway,  smiled  in  grim  derision  as  he  sur- 
veyed the  medley  of  pikemen,  lackeys,  scullions  and  cooks 
who  made  up  Faldora  of  Pesaro's  last  command.  Or, 
perhaps,  not  quite  the  last:  Lippo  would  fail,  Tribalda 
would  return  in  time,  and  the  last  command  would  be  a 
ride  up  the  valley  with  the  free  winds  of  God  in  his  face. 

Stamping  a  foot  for  silence  he  spoke  as  he  had  spoken 
at  the  supper-table,  but,  there  being  now  no  women  pres- 
ent, with  a  sharper,  sterner  directness.  No  need  to  give 
the  curt  address  at  length.  If  Lippo's  scum  broke  in  there 
would  be  no  quarter;  Lippo  would  give  none — let  them 
remember  Margotti  and  strike  home:  no  man  who  did  a 
man's  duty  would  be  forgotten :  to  that  Faldora  of  Pesaro 
set  his  oath.  Then  came  a  warning,  now  almost  brutal 
in  its  concise  clearness;  neither  God  nor  man  had  mercy 
for  traitors,  and  upon  that  he  dismissed  them  to  Ricci's 
orders  that  guards  might  be  set.  Be  sure  that  possible 
treason  was  cl«sely  watched  and  knew  it. 

No  need,  either,  to  tell  how  the  hours,  a  hundred  minutes 
long,  every  one  of  them,  dragged  on  their  slow  length. 
Whoso  has  watched,  whether  for  life  or  for  death,  waiting 

266 


NIGHT  237 

uncertainly  for  the  unknown,  uncertain  in  time  but  sure 
in  event,  will  understand.  In  the  women's  wing  Lucia 
Faldora  had  scant  time  for  her  own  thoughts.  Count 
Ascanio  might  say  that  Lippo  would  not  come  until  the 
small  dark  hours,  but  who  could  be  sure?  They  couldn't, 
poor  souls.  Lippo?  They  heard  Lippo  in  every  ring  of 
an  iron  heel  outside  their  barred  door,  Lippo  in  every 
clang  of  a  grounded  pikehandle  as  the  guards  were 
(hanged,  Lippo  in  the  hoot  of  an  owl  foraging  through 
the  summer  night,  Lippo  in  every  windy  gust  that  set  the 
trees  clashing. 

And  so  hearing  some  cried  softly,  some  sat  apart  shiv- 
ering, others  knelt  bowed  before  the  shrine  where  Our 
Lady  of  Comfort  stood  in  her  blue  niche  with  its  sprink- 
ling of  gilded  stars,  while  others,  some  one  or  two,  wept 
aloud,  if  weeping  it  could  be  called  where  terror  was  tear- 
less and  the  sobs  came  harshly  dry  from  dry  throats.  No! 
Neither  Lucia  Faldora  nor  the  priest  had  much  leisure  to 
think  upon  their  own  case,  and  it  may  be  that  therein  lay 
God's  mercy.  But  as  the  hours  passed  and  still  Lippo  did 
not  come,  the  reaction  of  exhausted  nature  compelled  an 
apathy.  Tears  dried  unwiped,  sobbing  ceased,  through 
simple  weariness  some  slept,  and  so  there  was  no  protest, 
an  indifference  almost,  when  Lucia  Faldora  quietly  un- 
barred the  door  and  passed  without.  Her  work  there  was 
done.  Imagination  had  beggared  reality,  leaving  the  pres- 
ent poor ;  even  though  Lippo  came  there  would  never  again 
be  the  same  terror. 

The  great  hall  was  ablaze  with  light.  It  was  Count  A§- 
canio's  belief  that  if  Lippo  found  the  Casa  vigilantly  on 
it-  ^ruard,  and  no  surprise  possible,  prudence  might  give 
him  pause,  thus  allowing  time  for  Tribalda  to  return. 
So  on  every  sconce  a  lamp  was  set,  into  every  ring-socket 
a  flaring  torch  thrust,  until  the  wide-flung  space  glowed 
as  never  in  a  noon  sun.  He  even  caused  the  great  door 


268  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

to  be  opened,  that  between  the  bars  of  the  gate  the  glare 
might  flood  the  night  with  warning. 

Into  this  brightness  the  girl  descended  to  find  a  score 
of  the  garrison  following  their  own  devices,  gossiping  in 
undertones,  playing  micare  or  throwing  a  cast  of  the  dice, 
and  Count  Ascanio  pacing  the  flags  alone.  Hearing  her 
step,  he  turned  to  meet  her. 

"All  quiet?" 

"All  quiet — now.     Where  is  Ser  Marco?" 

"He  and  Eicci  have  gone  the  rounds.  But  they  might 
spare  the  trouble ;  he  will  not  come,  he  is  not  such  a  fool." 

"The  rounds?    Will  it  take  long?" 

"Half  an  hour,  perhaps." 

She  paused,  her  grave  eyes  gravely  on  his.  Although 
the  growing  quiet  of  the  women's  quarters  had  afforded 
time  for  thought  no  course  of  action  had  taken  definite 
shape  in  her  mind,  yet  she  was  conscious  that  here  was  a 
check.  Vaguely,  but  without  a  doubt,  she  had  counted  on 
meeting  Fieravanti  at  once,  then,  somehow,  they  would 
draw  apart  and  through  the  strangeness  of  the  night  the 
barriers  she  had  set  up  between  would  break  of  themselves. 
Beyond  that  she  had  not  gone,  except  that  even  with  the 
barriers  flattened  there  would  be  no  passion,  the  hour 
was  too  grave,  the  issues  of  the  night  too  uncertain  for 
passion :  strong  emotion  would  be  out  of  place  and — and — 
she  herself  was  passionless.  So  she  told  herself.  That, 
vaguely,  had  been  her  thought  as  she  descended  the  stairs ; 
now,  as  is  so  often  the  case  in  the  great  crises  of  life,  . 
nothing  had  fallen  out  as  she  had  foreseen.  Half  an  hour?  j 
All  unemotional  though  she  was  she  could  not  endure  to 
listen  to  her  grandfather's  contempt  of  Carlo  Faldora  for 
half  an  hour. 

"Half  an  hour?"  she  repeated.  "You  will  find  me  in 
the  chapel  if  I  am  wanted." 


NIGHT  269 

"Aye,  go  pray:  that  is  woman's  work,"  he  said,  not 
sneeringly  or  contemptuously,  but  like  one  who  gave  a 
convinced  opinion.  "Though  what  half  an  hour  has  to  do 
with  it  I  do  not  see.  Signer  Roverella  will  not  come." 

"Please  God!"  she  answered,  but  so  doubtfully  that  it 
was  clear  she  had  no  doubt. 

Often  we  are  influenced  by  expressions  of  opinion  we 
think  we  despise.  The  doubt  set  Faldora  thinking.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  thought  of  what  the  doubt  stood  for,  per- 
haps the  strain  of  waiting  had  its  will  upon  him  at  last, 
but  as  he  resumed  his  restless  pacing,  striding  from  the 
fanning-out  of  the  wide  staircase  to  the  open  door  and 
back  again,  the  buoyance  of  the  past  hours  had  ebbed  away, 
leaving  him  pinched  and  older  even  than  his  years.  Be 
that  as  it  may,  whether  doubt  or  strain,  the  result  of  his 
thought  was  quickly  made  clear  on  Fieravanti's  return. 

"All's  well  ?"  he  repeated  querulously.    "Of  course  all's 

well.     Nevertheless "     He  broke  off,  tugging  at  the 

buckle  which  fastened  the  dagger  into  place  on  his  right 
hip,  a  slender  blade  in  a  sheath  of  damascened  steel.  Free- 
ing the  weapon  he  held  it  out,  girdle  and  all.  "Neverthe- 
less take  this  to  the  signorina.  You  will  find  her  in  the 
chapel." 

"This?" 

"Urn — Signor  Roverella  may  come,  may  he  not?* 

"Yes.    But  even  so?" 

"God's  name,  man!  Would  you  have  her  fall  alive 
into  his  hands?  You  do  not  understand?  No:  how  could 
you — being  you !  I  would  have  you  know  that  our  women 
do  not  find  it  hard  to  die.  Give  her  th«  dagger;  shell 
need  no  telling  when  to  use  it." 

"But  surely "  Fieravanti  began,  aghast. 

dora  thrust  the  embroidered  girdle  into  his  hands  impa- 
tiently. 


270  A  MAKER  OF  SAJNTS 

"Surely,  surely.  By  Holy  Paul!  I  would  do  it  with 
my  own  hand  if  needs  were.  Trust  her  alive  to  that  cogger 
of  dice  after  all  that  has  come  and  gone?  No!  not  with 
a  College  of  Cardinals  to  see  to  the  sacrament.  I  would 
sooner  she  married  Ricci  or — or — you.  And  Signor  Rover- 
ella  might  trouble  no  priest.  Trust  him?  Not  I  and  not 
she,  or  she  is  no  true  Faldora !  Go,  I  must  not  leave  the 
gate — though  he  won't  come :  would  God  he  would,  but  he 
won't,  he  won't." 

And  just  about  that  hour,  the  camp  being  a-crawl  with 
life  under  the  tawny  glare  of  smoky  resinous  torches  tied 
to  posts  set  here  and  there  in  the  open,  Lippo  was  unlock- 
ing the  door  of  the  hut  where  'Tonio  nursed  his  hurts, 
easing  his  sense  of  impotence  through  the  long  hours  of 
the  day  with  words  which  may  not  be  set  down  at  length. 
His  two-day-old  scratches  were  mending,  helped  by  a 
'pothecary's  salve  provided  by  the  thief,  but  the  stiff  sore- 
ness of  racked  muscles  and  over-strained  joints  had  not  yet 
worn  off. 

In  all  respects  he  was  well  treated.  Meat  and  drink  he 
had  in  plenty,  a  coarse  blanket  spread  over  beaten  straw 
was  bed  enough  and — Giro  being  kept  at  a  distance — 
there  was  a  kindly  enough  fellowship  in  the  rough  service 
which  ministered  to  his  needs:  Giro's  dogs  had  not  been 
loved.  Nor  was  his  a  forced  confinement.  Each  morning 
Lippo  had  said,  "Give  me  your  parole  for  a  week  and  I 
leave  the  door  open;"  but  steadily  he  had  refused,  partly 
from  an  English  obstinacy,  partly  because  always  he  had 
a  vague  hope  of  some  stroke  of  luck  falling  his  way,  but 
partly,  let  it  be  admitted,  because  he  could  have  made  but 
a  halting  use  of  liberty  with  his  wounds  unhealed  and 
aches  irking  every  limb. 

Left  without  a  lamp  he  had  slept  soon  after  the  fall  of 
night  only  to  be  awakened  after  two  or  three  hours  by 


NIGHT  271 

the  unwonted  stir  in  the  camp.  Under  the  ill-fitting, 
stout-built  door  a  line  of  light  cut  into  the  darkness;  voices 
were  calling  outside,  there  was  a  stamping  of  hoofs  on  the 
hard  ground,  the  nicker  of  horses,  the  rumble  and  turmoil 
of  busy  activity  clearer,  sharper,  through  the  night's  si- 
lences, than  twice  the  noise  by  day.  Rising  on  his  ktKiCl 
'Tonio  listened,  cursing  his  helplessness  through  shut  teeth, 
his  one  unfailing  consolation  being  that  the  Master  was 
safe  in  Arzano. 

For  Madonna  Lucia  or  the  old  lord  he  had  little  fear — 
they  would  be  caught  sleeping,  and  being  taken  without  a 
struggle  would  come  to  no  hurt.  Tribalda  and  the  guard? 
Even  while  he  cursed  he  shrugged,  grimacing.  It  was  not 
an  age  when  men  gave  much  thought  to  men:  brute  vio- 
lence and  sudden  death  were  the  commonplace  of  life — 
Tribalda  and  the  guard  must  dree  their  weird.  Without 
a  doubt  they  must  pass — some  of  them:  pray  God  they 
took  toll  before  they  passed.  And  as  he  knelt,  listening, 
itching  through  his  stiff  soreness  to  be  at  that  taking  of 
toll,  the  key  grated  in  the  lock  and  Lippo  came. 

"Are  you  awake,  Hawk?"  he  said,  speaking  from  the 
door  as  he  peered  from  under  the  lantern  held  aloft. 
"What?  my  lambs  roused  you,  did  they?  Wait,  all  will 
be  quiet  enough  presently;  you  and  the  horses— or  most 
of  them— will  have  the  camp  to  yourselves.  Whatever 
walks  on  two  legs  goes  a-visiting  with  Signor  Carlo. 
Horses?  Only  enough  to  bring  back  the  gifts  of  Signor 
Carlo's  liberal  heart,"  and  he  laughed.  "If  I  know  that 
heart  it  will  open  wide  to-night.  To-morrow  yon  may  sup 
with  him  at  Faldora— if  you  and  he  choose!  Have  you 
need  of  anything?" 

"Murder  in  the  dark,"  said  Hawk.     "It's  damnable, 

Lippo,  damnable." 
"It  will  be  daylight,  if  that  makes  it  any  better  r  amid 


272  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

Lippo  and  laughed  again,  less  pleasantly.  "No  darkness 
for  me:  nor  broad  day,  you  understand,  but  dusk  enough 
to  see  lest  there  should  be  accidents." 

"Then,  please  God  you  will  have  the  village  on  your 
back/' 

"No  fear!  We'll  see  neither  hide  nor  hair  of  one  of 
them.  They'll  remember  Margotti.  Some  blame  me  there, 
but  Margotti  has  his  uses  to  this  day.  Margotti?  Mar- 
gotti was  mercy — mercy!  Why,  fear  of  him  will  save  a 
score  of  lives  to-night,  but  one  gets  no  credit  for  one's  good 
deeds,"  and  he  pulled-to  the  door.  Listening,  Hawk  heard 
the  bolt  of  the  lock  shot  home,  grating. 

And  soon  the  predicted  quietness  possessed  the  night; 
the  only  sounds  came  from  the  horses,  restless  in  their 
stalls :  then  these,  too,  quieted  to  that  stillness  of  which  we 
know  nothing  but  which  we  call  the  stillness  of  death. 

But  'Tonio  did  not  sleep  again;  the  very  stillness, 
seeming  to  listen  with  him,  kept  him  awake.  Wrapped  in 
his  blanket  he  lay  staring  at  the  invisible  crack  below  the 
ill-fitting  door  where,  the  torches  being  extinguished,  he 
had  last  seen  light,  staring  and  listening — listening.  It 
was,  of  course,  all  a  trick  of  the  imagination,  but  it  was 
as  if,  through  the  dumb  silence  he  could  hear  from  far 
down  the  curves  of  the  valley  the  splintering  of  the  wooden 
hinges  Lippo  had  once  boasted  over,  the  splintering,  the 
rush  of  feet  and  a  cry. 

Anthony  Hawk  was  no  weakling,  but  he  shivered  under 
his  blanket  and  whispered,  "God  help  them !"  to  the  dark : 
Lippo  he  knew  for  a  brute  and  a  cruel  devil,  "God  help 
the  poor  souls."  Then,  suddenly,  he  was  aware  that  a 
greyness  filtered  through  the  intense  black  of  the  dark, 
and  while  he  drew  a  lingering  breath,  staring  harder,  a 
bird  called  a  note  or  two,  called  drowsily  to  be  answered 
by  another  and  another  until  the  woods,  like  the  world, 
were  awake  to  the  unknown  of  a  new  day. 


NIGHT  273 

Sitting  up,  'Tonio  smote  his  hands  together.  God  in 
heaven!  What  were  they  doing  down  at  Faldora?  Tri- 
balda?  A  good  fellow,  Tribalda.  There  could  be  little 
hope  that  he  would  see  the  sunrise.  But  surely  the  Ma- 
donna would  be  safe?  Surely  not  even  a  brute  like 

Lippo Then    he   remembered   Carlo   Faldora   and 

groaned  aloud  at  his  impotence,  cursing  useless  curses, 
only  to  check  himself  and  rear  upright  on  his  knees,  listen- 
ing, but  not  now  for  that  far-off  cry  of  a  parting  soul 

Surely  there  was  a  stir  in  the  camp?  A  footfall  on  the 
ground  trodden  so  bare  of  grass  as  to  be  hard  as  a  pave- 
ment in  the  dryness  of  the  July  heat? 

"Hulloa !"  he  shouted,  beating  on  the  door  with  clenched 
fists,  "Hulloa!  Hulloa!"  then  paused,  straining  to  hear. 
But  the  footfall  had  ceased  and  he  shouted  again,  louder 
than  before,  "Hulloa!  Hulloa!  Hulloa!"  and  again 
paused,  listening.  There  was  the  tramp  again !  He  heard 
it  coming  nearer,  nearer;  and  so  hearing  beat  his  skinned 
knuckles  on  the  door  nor  ever  knew  that  they  bled  afresh. 

"Here !"  he  called,  "here ;  the  second  hut  from  the  cor- 
ner :  turn  the  key — the  key !  for  God's  sake  turn  the  key 
and  make  haste!" 

Again  the  footfalls  ceased;  Hawk  was  conscious  of  heavy 
breathing  beyond  the  door,  then  came  a  jangle  as  of  a 
key  touched  uncertainly. 

"All's  well,"  said  'Tonio,  choking  his  impatience  to  con- 
ciliation lest  he  should  scare  away  freedom.  "I  am  Hawk 
-Hawk,  who  fought  Giro's  dogs,"  and  the  key  was  turned. 

Dragging  the  door  open  'Tonio  stood  an  instant  blinking 
at  the  stronger  light.  All  unconsciously  at  the  moment, 
but  to  return  to  memory  later,  he  saw  the  camp  a  void,  the 
sunlight  yellow  on  the  rocky  crest  of  the  far  off  ridge,  and, 
fa.  in-  him.  arm's  length  away,  a  peasant  of  the  hills  whc 
trafficked  for  the  outlaws  and  who,  in  the  empty  camp  i§w 
an  end  to  his  gains. 


274 


A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 


"Gone?"  he  stammered.     "Where — where ' 

But  Hawk  pushed  past  him,  hardly  conscious  of  the 
soreness  in  his  racked  muscles.  His  halting  limp  quick- 
ened to  a  walk,  then  gritting  his  teeth  he  ran,  calling  back, 
"It's  Falc'ora!  They  are  sacking  Faldora!  If  you  have 
sense  keep  clear  of  the  millstones."  Seven  minutes  later 
he  was  galloping  out  of  camp,  swaying  as  he  rode  and  still 
gritting  his  teeth  but  holding  his  place  in  the  saddle.  The 
peasant  had  already  disappeared,  scared  to  the  marrow 
by  the  raspings  of  such  millstones  as  Lippo  and  Ascanio 
Faldora. 


CHAPTER  XXVIH 

SUN  RISK 

Nor  even  the  great  Florentine  himself  had  found  the 
going  down  and  up  another's  stairs  so  hard  a  road  aa 
Fieravanti  found  the  ascent  to  the  chapel  where  he  had 
been  bidden  find  Lucia  Faldora  in  prayer.  Conceive  the 
conflict  within  him — to  say  to  the  dear  woman  he  loved, 
but  to  whom  no  word  of  love  might  be  spoken,  Your  grand- 
father sends  you  this!  and  put  the  dagger  in  her  hands. 
And  not  without  reason.  Count  Ascanio's  Faldora  pride 
might  say,  How  could  such  as  you  understand!  but  the 
maker  of  saints  knew  the  ruthlessness  of  the  time*  M 
clearly  as  any  Faldora,  knew  that  in  fire  and  aack  there 
was  pity  neither  for  tottering  age  nor  babe  at  the  brea*t, 
nor,  let  success  grow  drunken,  would  there  be  bit  or  bridle 
to  the  after  licence.  Without  a  doubt,  better  the  mercies 
of  God  than  fall  living  into  the  hands  of  Lippo  and  hi* 
vile  crew.  Carlo  Faldora  ?  Carlo  Faldora's  last  word*  as 
he  flung  out  of  the  workshop  had  been  such  a  threat  a» 
lent  the  dagger  an  edge. 

No,  it  was  not  astonished  horror  at  the  thought  which 
shook  Fieravanti  as  he  slowly  climbed  the  stain,  it  «•» 
that  Faldora  should  so  suddenly  have  sensed  the  nearness 
of  such  an  extremity  and  that  of  all  men  he,  Karoo  fi«t- 
vanti,  should  darken  the  chapel  with  such  a  shadow  of 
death.  Then  as  he  drew  near  the  top  step  he  wis  doubly 
comforted:  Lippo— Carlo  Faldora,  would  not  con* 
another  twenty-four  hours  Tribalda  would  return  and  all 

276 


276  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

be  well.  But  if  he  came,  Lippo  or  that  other  untrusted  by 
his  own  blood,  and  coming  prevailed  to  the  need  for  a 
dagger-point,  he  at  least,  he,  Marco  Fieravanti,  would 
know  nothing  of  that  last  terrible  call  upon  God's  mercies 
— he  would  have  gone  before. 

Drawing  aside  the  heavy  curtain  which  masked  the  ever- 
open  door  of  the  chapel,  Fieravanti  stood  for  a  moment 
looking  within.  With  the  great  hall  and  all  the  lower 
passage-ways  ablaze  with  flaring  lights,  here  alone  was 
dimness,  one  solitary  silver  lamp,  swung  by  a  chain  from 
the  roof,  cast  a  mild  radiance  on  the  glory  of  the  altar,  a 
"Pater,  dimitte  ttlis,"  of  the  dying  Christ  whose  head, 
after  the  outwrung  prayer,  had  sunk  forward  for  the  last 
time,  the  parted  lips  ready  to  whisper  their  eternal  "It  is 
finished."  There,  upon  such  a  night  as  this,  surely  Lucia 
Faldora  would  be  found.  But  no  kneeling  white-robed 
figure  bowed  upon  the  altar  rail;  the  chapel  was  empty, 
its  solemn  stillness  unbroken  even  by  a  heartbeat. 

Where  then?  Dropping  the  curtain  Fieravanti  stood 
considering.  Upon  this  upper  floor  lamps  were  fewer,  no 
more  than  floating  wicks  most  of  them:  into  the  dimness 
of  a  passage  a  fuller  light  suffused  through  a  door  half 
opened  and  Fieravanti's  heart  leaped  as  he  recognised  the 
door  of  his  workshop.  There?  Perhaps!  The  thought 
warmed  him.  She  had  seemed  so  indifferent,  so  marble- 
cold  to  the  work  which  lay  so  near  his  heart.  It  might  be 
that  he  had  misjudged,  misunderstood.  Certainly  in  that 
surrounding  it  would  be  less  difficult  to  fulfil  his  task  than 
there  before  the  altar. 

On  the  threshold  he  paused,  scarcely  daring  to  breathe 
and  yet  choked  for  breath,  so  moved  was  he.  In  the  middle 
of  the  room  stood  his  clay  model,  shifted  on  its  turntable 
sideways  to  the  door;  beyond,  a  lamp  turned  low  flamed 
dimly  from  a  moveable  standard;  a  little  to  one  side  the 
marble,  as  yet  amorphous,  grotesque  in  its  rude  suggestion, 


SUNRISE  277 

glimmered  ghostly  in  the  half  light.  These  he  saw,  but 
saw  vaguely;  it  was  Lucia  Faldora,  white  as  the  marble, 
who  held  his  eyes.  Chiii  on  breast,  her  mouth  resting  on 
her  clasped  hands  she  knelt  on  the  bare  floor  in  front  of 
the  as  yet  unfinished  Great  Mother:  not  even  in  the  chapel 
was  there  a  greater  stillness. 

Though  in  that  stillness  she  must  have  heard  his  com- 
ing she  gave  no  immediate  sign  but  knelt  on.  Nor  was 
that  strange.  It  might  well  be  that  the  cry  of  spirit  to 
Spirit  had  not  yet  ended  its  dumb  petition ;  it  may  be  that, 
recognising  his  footfall,  not  at  once  dared  she  trust  herself 
to  look  up,  or  it  may  be  that  she  was  still  uncertain  of 
what  might  follow  and  so  paused  to  shape  her  course. 
But  presently  the  clasped  hands  fell  slowly  apart;  lifting 
her  head  she  looked  him  in  the  face  and  rose. 

Once  again  her  infinite  variety  came  to  Fieravanti  as  a 
surprise.  Never  yet  had  he  seen  such  a  look,  the  wistful 
tenderness,  the  mute,  fearless  avowal,  the  dumb  confes- 
sion, the  passionless  passion,  the  eyes  aglow  as  if  with  a 
light  from  within:  surely  even  to  humanity  there  is,  in 
its  moments  of  exaltation,  such  a  thing  as  Transfiguration? 
Unnoticed,  Count  Ascanio's  embroidered  girdle  and  all  it 
held  slipped  from  his  fingers:  kneeling  he  caught  her 
hands  in  his  and  held  them  to  his  lips,  shivering;  with- 
drawing one  she  laid  it  on  his  bent  head,  touching  him 
with  trembling  finger-tips. 

"Marco— my  Marco!"  she  said  softly,  and  rising  he 
caught  her  to  his  breast 

"Sweet!    Oh,  my  sweet,  my  sweet,"  he  whispered.  "God 
be  thanked !    Yes,  though  the  world  end  to-night,  God  1 
thanked !"    Seating  her  on  a  bench  he  knelt  again  befow 
her,  her  hands  in  his. 

How  long?    Longer  than  they  knew,  yet  not  long 
for  cMli-  -  to  unpack  all  that  had  lain  hidden  in  the  h«tfi 
Often  there  were  silences,  often  only  a  murmured  word 


278  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

or  two,  sometimes  a  "God  be  thanked,"  and  once  at  least — 
this  was  Fieravanti — a  "God  be  merciful !  Oh  God !  Oh 
God!  be  merciful!"  But  between  the  silences  and  tha 
throb  of  the  heart  breaking  out  into  whispered  words  there 
was  much  to  be  told,  much  to  be  explained;  chiefly,  on 
Lucia  Faldora's  part,  the  coming  of  that  guest  of  the  Cus- 
tom who  had  stripped  away  the  husks  of  pride.  Then, 
shifting  as  he  stooped  over  her,  Fieravanti's  eyes  caught 
the  glint  of  a  damascened  sheath  lying  on  the  floor  be- 
yond the  statue,  and  heaven  dissolved  into  the  hard  reali- 
ties of  the  hour. 

"Gird  it  upon  me,"  she  said  when  he  told  her,  not  easily, 
of  old  Faldora's  message.  And  as  his  arms  clasped  her 
about,  his  fingers  shaking  as  he  tightened  the  buckle,  she 
laid  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  her  face  very  wan  in  the 
lamplight.  "Then  it  was  for  the  honour  of  the  name,  but 

now "  Pausing  she  lifted  her  mouth  to  his.  "Now 

it  is  for  the  honour  of  Marco  Fieravanti.  Have  no  fear 
for  me,  my  heart,  no  fear  at  all.  Either  this  will  pass 
and  we  shall  be  together  or — or — we  shall  still  be  together, 
but  not  here." 

At  the  chapel  door  they  halted  and  her  arms  went  round 
him  in  a  last  "God  be  with  you !"  Passionately  ?  With  the 
hard-held  passion  of  the  woman  who  loves  without  condi- 
tions, yet  for  very  love's  sake  dares  not  loosen  its  fulness 
lest  she  make  the  farewell  too  sore  a  Borrow  by  the  revela- 
tion. But  Fieravanti  understood;  his  last  kiss  was  upon 
her  forehead,  a  sacring,  a  touch  as  of  a  chrism :  not  with 
the  pulse  of  man's  passion  throbbing  hot  in  her  veins 
should  she  go  into  the  Presence  to  wait  for — God  alone 
knew  what! 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  as  if  upon  the  watch  for  his 
return,  Fieravanti  found  Father  Bernardo.  Always 
kindly,  always  more  than  friendly  in  his  warm  admiration, 
there  was  now  almost  such  a  tender  affection  in  the 


SUNRISE  279 

priest's  shrewd  eyes  as  that  which  held  the  girl  he  loved 
in  its  regard. 

"Lucia?" 

"In  the  chapel — waiting." 

"Yes,  and  watching !  That  is  the  woman's  lot,  to  wait 
and  watch :  the  man's  part  is  easier.  I  confessed  her  to- 
day ;  would  God  all  the  world  were  as  white-souled."  Tak- 
ing the  sculptor's  hand  in  both  his  he  pressed  it  closely. 
"His  wisdom  be  with  you  both,"  he  said  with  significant 
earnestness.  "She  is  very  dear  to  me,  very  dear,  and  great 
with  a  greatness  she  keeps  hidden  out  of  sight,"  and 
Fieravanti  understood  that  though  what  had  passed  in  that 
confession  was  for  God  and  the  priest  and  no  other,  Father 
Bernardo  was  more  than  ever  his  friend. 

"Watch  over  her,  Father,"  was  all  he  answered,  but  it 
was  enough: 

"A  greater  than  I,  my  son.  And  if  there  is  need  at  all 
I  must  be  about  His  business  to-night.  If  Lippo  canal 
there  will  be  a  priesf  s  work  to  be  done  in  terrible  earnest 
But  with  every  minute  safety  is  more  certain.  See,  there 
is  a  greyness  in  the  sky.  Shall  I  waken  Count  Aacaflio?" 

"He  is  asleep,  then?" 

"Yes — outworn !  There  he  is  on  the  bench  beyond  the 
hearth :  at  the  last  nature  was  too  strong  for  him— M  die 
is  for  us  all !"  he  added,  a  smile  puckering  his  lip«  an  in- 
stant. "God  be  thanked  for  nature—at  times!  Shall  I 
waken  him?" 

"Better;  it  would  vex  him  to  sleep  the  night  twty  and 
morning  is  almost  on  us." 

Nor  was  the  rousing  difficult.    In  that  second  nature 
which  we  call  habit  he  was  on  his  feet  at  a  touch,  tew- 
< -y. •<!  and  broad  awake,  a  hand  by  instinct  on  the  hilt 
tii.-  sword  which  was  no  toy  blade  but  a  length  fit  to  crow 
with  Lippo — or  ^ignor  Rovcrella. 

"Has  he  come?"    Not  "they/'  be  it  noticed,  but  "he"] 


280  A  MAKEK  OF  SAINTS 

it  is  to  be  doubted  if  truly  he  gave  thought  to  any  one  be- 
yond Carlo  Faldora. 

"No,  and  day  is  breaking." 

With  a  straightening  of  the  back,  and  an  alert  shaking 
of  the  shoulders,  as  if  to  throw  off  their  stiffness,  he 
turned  and  strode  to  the  shut  gates.  There  he  stood  a 
moment,  grasping  the  bars  as  he  stared  out  and  upward. 
In  the  mountains  dawn  comes  quickly;  the  greyness  had 
paled  to  the  deeper  colour  of  the  dove,  and  already  the 
flaring  glare  of  the  torches  showed  garish  and  unreal  in 
the  purer  light  of  increasing  day. 

"He  will  not  come !  Signer  Eoverella  is  less  a  fool  than 
I  thought.  He  will  not  come !"  Faldora  repeated,  disap- 
pointed, and  turned  from  the  gate.  But  even  as  he  turned 
a  hollow  rumble  broke  the  ordered  quiet;  as  it  grew  louder 
all  started,  listening.  "What  is  that,  Kicci?"  he  called. 
"By  Holy  Paul,  there  is  hope  yet  I" 

"The  turret  stairs,"  said  Ricci,  "I  set  a  watch  on  the 
roof " 

A  guard  rushed  in,  panting  more  with  excitement  than 
from  lack  of  breath. 

"There!"  he  cried,  pointing  back.  "There!  By  the 
small  postern." 

"How  many?    Is  it  a  feint  or  full  strength?" 

"Full  strength,  signer.  They  had  been  hidden  in  the 
trees  and  came  with  a  rush." 

"Let  them  come!"  Faldora  was  almost  leisurely;  next 
instant  he  stiffened  as  a  rasping  crash  split  screeching  on 
the  quiet.  "By  God !  the  door's  down !  They're  in !  To 
me !  to  me !" 

Stiffly,  yet,  too,  with  a  swing  and  a  joyousness  which 
was  reflected  on  his  face,  easing  the  hard  sternness  of  his 
age,  Faldora,  his  sword  already  drawn,  ran  to  meet  the 
assault.  As  he  passed  Fieravanti  the  sculptor,  divided  be- 
tween joining  in  the  counter  attack  or  remaining  to  hold 


SUNRISE  281 

the  staircase  in  defence  of  Madonna  Lucia,  heard  him 
mutter  an  anathema  as  his  groping  hand  missed  the  dagger 
from  his  hip;  then  as  the  stamping  shuffle  of  feet  grew 
clearer,  and  a  cry  cut  across  the  rising  din,  he  turned  and 
followed  at  top  speed.  Already  the  defence  was  giring 
back.  In  the  cramped  passage  ways,  broad  aa  became  the 
ancient  dignity  of  Faldora  yet  narrow  for  the  unordered 
mob  crowding  between  the  walls,  sheer  weight  of  numbers 
and  the  fury  of  Lippo's  men  overbore  opposition.  Three 
cool-headed  men  side  by  side  could  have  checked  the  on- 
rush, but  caught  unawares  the  defence  was  a  rabble.  Fiera- 
vanti,  behind,  was  of  little  service  and  gave  back  with  the 
crush. 

What  befell  in  that  confused  welter  of  strife?  No  man 
knew  all  for  certain.  The  alarm  of  the  guards  at  the 
postern,  guards  trebled  for  the  night  watches,  had  been 
lost  in  the  splintered  crash  which  had  warned  Faldora. 
Riven  from  its  wooden  hinges  the  door,  catching  at  the 
lock,  had  swung  reversewards ;  the  rush  was  in  and  over 
the  defenders,  leaving  them  past  all  sacrament,  before 
ever  they  knew  there  was  danger:  but  Carlo  Faldora, 
looking  back,  saw  four  stretched  where  there  had  been 
but  three  on  guard.  There  would  be  no  fifty  ducat*  to 
pay_Giro  of  the  dogs  had  taken  his  wages.  How?  Per- 
haps Faldora  could  have  told,  but  with  theee  three  dead 
thrice  over  how  could  any  ask  him,  Why  is  your  blade 
reddened  ?  No !  No  man  knew  for  certain  the  full  itoty 
of  that  day's  dawning. 

Slowly,  but  with  increasing  swiftness  as  disorder  grew 
yet  more  disordered,  the  defence  was  born  backward  toward 
the  great  hall.    Ascanio  Faldora,  half  a  head  taller  t 
most,  had  forced  his  way  to  the  front  and  Fieravant 
hedged  helpless  in   the  rear  of  the  pack,  knew  I 
shifting  shoulders  that  the  long  blade  was  busy; 
found  himself  back  at  the  stair-foot  with  the  day  white 


282  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

through  the  bars  of  the  shut  gate,  and  with  a  rush 
Lippo's  men  had  forced  their  way  into  the  hall. 

Thence  on  there  was  work  for  all.  As  if  by  concerted 
plan  old  Faldora  fell  back  to  where  Fieravanti  held  the 
staircase,  and  side  by  side,  sword's  room  apart,  they  fought 
for  a  woman's  life,  nor  was  the  maker  of  saints  one  jot 
behind  the  soldier  in  plying  the  soldier's  trade.  Seeing  all 
go  well  Lippo,  no  coward  but  careful  as  became  a  man 
who  saw  the  future  opening  roseate  before  him,  kept  in  the 
background,  urging  on  his  men.  There  could  be  no 
quarter;  the  old  lord  must  go  the  road  taken  by  so  many 
of  his  fathers:  needs  must  that  a  Faldora  succeed  a  Fal- 
dora that  day;  only  success  could  justify  murder. 

And,  presently,  success  came.  Without  a  cry,  without 
so  much  as  a  sharp-drawn  breath,  Ascanio  Faldora  reeled 
sideways,  groped  blindly  at  the  wall  and  pitched  forward, 
crumpling  as  he  fell;  but  that  he  lay  upon  his  breast  the 
staining  of  the  purple  worn  in  honour  of  Signor  Eoverel- 
la's  coming  would  have  told  the  reason. 

Nor  did  disaster  end  there.  Left  open  on  the  flank 
Fieravanti,  striving  fiercely  to  cover  the  double  space, 
thrust  this  way  and  that  in  desperation  without  thought 
to  guard,  took  a  hurt  unheeded,  thrust  again  at  an  opening 
leaving  himself  uncovered,  and,  with  a  point  below  the 
throat  toppled  backward  on  the  steps  crying,  "The  Ma- 
donna! God!  God!  the  Madonna!"  rolled  over  and  lay 
face  upwards  staring. 

At  once  a  shout  went  up,  a  shout  to  shake  the  dust  from 
the  ancient  corbels,  and  in  the  double  triumph  Lippo's  men 
for  an  instant  eased  the  pressure.  But  a  shout  answered 
the  shout,  "The  Madonna !  the  Madonna !"  and  Eicci,  with 
Nello  a  foot  behind  him,  drove  forward.  Not  alone; 
Fieravanti's  cry  had  warned  them  there  would  be  no 
quarter  and  this  time  the  advantage  of  surprise  was  theirs. 
Back  the  way  it  had  come  surged  the  struggle.  Lippo, 


SUNRISE 

caught  in  the  rear  in  turn,  cursed,  raving,  as,  frantically 
shouldering  the  wall,  he  stroYe  to  force  a  way  to  the  front 

But  the  pressure  was  too  heavy;  little  by  little  he  wat 
borne  back.  Crushed  into  a  doorway  he  clung  an  instant 
to  its  edge  and  in  that  instant  saw  Carlo  Faldora's  pale 
face  look  out  from  the  half  darkness  beyond  the  open  door. 
The  look,  the  lifted  lip  over  the  clenched  teeth,  wai  a 
warning.  With  a  wrench  Lippo  strove  to  free  hia  arm 
from  the  crush.  But  the  very  effort  betrayed  him;  under 
the  uplifted  arm  Faldora  struck  twice,  paused  staring,  then 
turned  and  fled:  a  careful  strategist,  Carlo  Faldora,  he 
had  a  way  of  escape  open  in  the  rear.  Slipping  to  hit 
knees  Lippo  fell,  groaning,  and  the  backward  surge  of  the 
press  tramped  over  him :  he,  too,  had  taken  his  wages. 

Bound  through  that  second  door  and  by  a  side  passage 
Carlo  Faldora  made  his  way  in  great  haste  to  the  hall,  now 
empty  of  life.     There  he  paused  a  moment,  irresolute. 
What  next  ?    Faldora  had  gone  the  red  way  of  many  Fal- 
doras,  Giro  was  dead,  Lippo  had  met  his  accident;  what 
next?    Lucia?    The  defence  of  the  stairway  had  been  hint 
enough;  even  without  Fieravanti's  despairing  cry  Carlo 
knew  that  Lucia  Faldora  was  upon  the  upper  floor.    With 
one  foot  on  the  lowest  step  he  paused  again,  glancing  down 
the  hall  with  its  near  end  cumbered  by  the  dead  and  dying: 
the  wide  door  opening  on  to  the  barred  gate  beyond  gave 
him  a  thought    Faldora  lay  dead  at  the  stairfoot,  he  had 
no  doubt  but  in  the  long  run  Lippo's  men  would  gain  the 
upper  hand  and,  wanting  his  control,  sack  would  follow- 
well,  let  it  follow,  he  was  Faldora  of  Pesaro!    But  Locil 
For  the  moment  the  empty  camp  wafl  safest    For  I 
Faldora  ?    Xo !  for  his  own  purposes,  and  there  were  fc 
hidden  nearby  in  the  woods.    Running  the  length  of  1 
hall  he  unbarred  and  unlocked  the  gate,  flinging  il 
then  hastened  back,  paused  a  moment  listening  1 
clash  and  din,  the  stamping  feet,  the  cries,  the  groana,  U 


284  A  MAKER  OF  SAINTS 

blent  turmoil  of  fierce  life  and  hurrying  death,  then  ran 
upstairs. 

Of  the  sacrilegious  struggle  before  the  altar  little  need 
be  said:  Faldora  had  a  man's  strength  and  used  it  like 
a  brute.  Within  five  minutes  his  footfall,  burdened  and 
careful,  rang  in  the  hollow  of  the  staircase  where  Ascanio 
Faldora  would  never  hear  the  echoes  of  his  hope.  Helpless 
for  the  moment  in  the  folds  of  the  scarf  which  had  covered 
her  from  the  chill  of  the  morning  the  girl  might  sway  and 
struggle,  calling  for  help  as  she  battled  with  all  her  cum- 
bered strength,  but  step  by  step,  his  side  eased  against  the 
balustrade  for  support,  Faldora  kept  his  feet,  descending. 
At  the  stairfoot  he  halted.  "See !"  he  called  through  teeth 
fast  set  in  the  tense  strain  of  his  effort.  A  jerk  of  the 
head  pointed  his  meaning.  There  lay  Faldora.  But  it 
was  upon  Fieravanti  that  her  eyes  were  fastened  and  the 
cry  for  succour  rose  into  a  scream,  "Marco !  Marco !"  A 
gasping  catch  in  the  breath  choked  her,  but  as  Faldora 
turned  towards  the  gateway  she  called,  straining  back 
against  the  clenching  grip,  "To-day,  Marco,  to-day — to- 
day," and  again  fought  frantically  against  the  clinch. 

But  as  Faldora  had  turned  a  shadow  fell  on  the  thres- 
hold between  the  great  piers  of  the  gate.  For  a  moment 
Anthony  Hawk  stood  confused  and  staring,  his  eyes  on 
Faldora  and  Faldora's  on  him:  Lucia,  straining  back- 
wards, saw  nothing  but  Marco  Fieravanti,  face  upward  on 
the  stairfoot  and  so  seeing  she  screamed.  Then  Hawk  un- 
derstood. With  an  oath  he  ran  forward,  his  stiff,  soreness 
lost  in  a  fury  of  wild  rage,  ran,  grappled  with  Faldora  and 
grappling  threw  him. 

Bruised  by  the  fall,  but  flung  clear  of  the  two  now 
struggling  in  death  grips,  Lucia  Faldora  pushed  herself 
to  her  feet.  "Marco !"  she  cried,  an  exceedingly  bitter 
cry,  "Marco !  my  Marco !  Marco !  Marco  I"  and  ran  back  to 
the  stairway  tearing  loose  the  scarf  as  she  ran. 


SUNRISE 

And  across  the  gulf  which  had  seemed  the  valley  of  the 
shadow  Fieravanti  heard.  Looking  up  from  the  throat 
he  gripped  Hawk  saw  him  stir,  saw  him  raise  himself  to 
meet  her.  saw  her  kneel  and  take  him  to  her  breast:  then 
his  grip  tightened. 

From  the  hollow  of  the  passage-way  a  shout  arose,  with 
Ricci's  voice  loud  above  the  din,  "No  quarter !  no  quarter  P* 
Then  there  was  a  rush  of  feet  and  silence. 


minimi 

A    000127990    0 


